tvr AND PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETIES 1 PQ 1631 .H 3 E 5 18TOZ \fc s' / ,/ / - < This h»h « d.«D “ « " last date stamped und renewed by bringing it » tn date d\je • w m jVW RET. 2X79 date dee RET. » 'i, t\ ^\jf?A » •' tin i I , (\ . tf'kp J j • - „ ^ l - ’ 2SJ • 1 • " nrrgl ~TT ira £ 30tf^ # •V PROLOGUE L HEPT AM EBON , H2> MARGARET QUEEN OF NAVARRE: st/M 7)^7S o NEW YORK: i R. WORTHINGTON & CO., IMPORTERS .PREFACE. Margaret of Angouleme, Duchess of Alen^on, Queen of Navarre, only sister of Francis I., is certainly the author of the collection of tales which bears her name, though the fact has been doubted by some French writers. La Croix du Maine, for instance, says : “ I question whether the princess composed this book ; forasmuch as it is full of bold discourses and ticklish expressions.” But, against this sur¬ mise we may set the positive testimony of Brantome. The Queen of Navarre, he says, “ composed most of these novels in her Jitter as she travelled ; for her hours of retirement were employed in affairs of importance. I have heard this account from my grandmother, who always went with her in her litter, as her lady of honour, and held her standi>>h for her; and she wrote them down as quickly and readily, or rather more so, than if they had been dictated to her.” Besides, as Bayle remarks, La Croix du Maine could never have entertained a doubt on the matter if he had read Claude Gruget’s dedication of the second edition of the work to Joan d’Albret, only daughter of Queen Margaret. Had the work been supposititious, it is incredible that Gruget should have thus addressed the princess : “ Such a present will not be new to you ; you will only recognise it as your mother's heiress. However, I persuade myself that it will be accept¬ able to you to see it by this second impression restored to its primitive state; for (as I have heard) the first displeased you ; not but that he who undertook it was a learned man, and had taken pains with it, and, as is easy to believe, would 689368 VI Preface. not have thus disguised it without some reason for doing so; yet his labour proved disagreeable .” The history of the Heptameron is singular. It is the best known and the most popular of all the old collections of tales in the French Language. It has been the delight of the unlearned, scholars have warmly commended it, and men of talent and genius have borrowed from its pages. Brantome speaks of it with enthusiasm, and quotes it repeatedly; Lafontaine, the conteur par excellence , acknowledges his obli¬ gations to it; Montaigne calls it nn ge?itil livre pour son etoffe— “ a nice book for its matter;” and Bayle says it is, “ after the manner of Boccace’s novels,” and “ has some beauties in that kind which are surprising.” The book, too* has had its enemies as well as its admirers, for it abounds with reflections on religious topics which accord with the author’s known leaning to the cause of the Reformers ; and through the whole work the monks, especially the Cordeliers, are treated with much severity, and are represented as com¬ mitting, and sometimes with impunity even when discovered, the most cruel, deceitful, and immoral actions. From all this, would it not seem reasonable to presume that the world had long possessed a tolerably correct text of this celebrated book—one at least which has not been seriously falsified both by omissions and interpolations? But such is not the fact. The genuine Heptameron, after remaining in manuscript for more than three hundred years from the Queen of Navarre’s death was only published a few years ago by the Societe des Bibliophiles Fran^ais. Margaret died in 1549. In 1558, Pierre Boaistuau pub¬ lished the first edition of her novels under the title of Ilistoire des Amans Fortunes, which he dedicated to Mar¬ garet of Bourbon, the deceased queen’s niece. He took strange liberties with the original, inverting the order of the stories, and suppressing several of them, as well as many names of real personages, numerous passages that seemed to him too bold, and nearly the whole series of conversations by which one tale is followed and the next introduced. Now vu Preface . these conversations occupy almost one-half of the work, and comprise some of its most characteristic matter : no wonder, therefore, that Joan d’Albert was dissatisfied with Boaistuau’s editorial labours. In i 559 > Claude Gruget replaced the novels in their original order, restored most of the suppressed prologues and epilogues, and gave to the whole the title of Heptameron, instead of Decameron, which Margaret had intended to call it; for she had modelled it upon the De¬ cameron of Boccaccio, but died before she had completed more than two novels of the eighth day. So far the second editor’s work was a great improvement on that of his pre¬ decessor ; but Gruget did not venture to restore the proper names, or the passages which Boaistuau had suppressed as objectionable; while, on the other hand, he foisted into ihe work tales and dialogues of his own composition, without a word of warning to the reader, and left them to pass as the genuine productions of the Queen of Navarre. All this was bad enough ; but worse followed. The Hep¬ tameron having grown very scarce, the booksellers of Am¬ sterdam reprinted it in 1698. “They published two editions of it,” says Bayle: “one from that of Claude Gruget, the other metamorphosed into new French : the latter will please foreigners who only understand the modern language, and many ignorant and lazy Frenchmen, who care not to be at the pains of informing themselves how they spoke in the reign of Francis I. The other edition is the only one which will be used by Frenchmen of good taste and judgment.” The majority of readers, however, not being persons of that description, the modernised edition quickly supplanted the antique one; and for the last hundred and fifty years the Heptameron has scarcely been known in any other form than that given to it by the literary cobbler by whom it was mis en beau language , et accommode au gout de ce temps — “ put into fair language, and accommodated to the taste of the age.” It is no exaggeration of his demerits to say that he neither understood old French rightly, nor could write modern French passably. His “ beau language ” is mere Vlll Preface. slipslop; he mistakes the meaning of his original a thousand times ; and, by way, no doubt, of “ accommodating it to the taste of the age,” he patches it with paltry scraps from the common repertory of the “ fast school ” of his day. Mai sur tnal n'est pas sante , says a French proverb. The work which survived all this accumulated ill-usage must have possessed no ordinary stock of vitality. It has at last been reproduced in its original form from MSS., of which there are twelve in the Bibliothhque Nationale of Paris, all belong¬ ing to the second half of the sixteenth century. From this edition (L’Heptameron des Nouvtrlles de tres haute et tres illustre Princesse Marguerite D’Angouleme, Reine de Na¬ varre. Nouvelle edition, publiee sur les manuscrits par la Soci^t^ des Bibliophiles Frangais. A Paris, 1853. 3 vols.) the present translation has been made. CONTENTS. Introduction. . . FIRST DA Y Novel I. A woman of Alencon having two lovers, one for her pleasure and the other for her profit, caused that one of the two to be slain who was the first to discover her gallantries—She obtained her pardon and that of her husband, who had fled the country, and who afterwards, in order to save some money, applied to a necromancer—The mat* ter was found out and punished .. Novel II. Chaste and lamentable death of the wife of one of the Queen of Navarre’s muleteers . . . Novel III. A king of Naples, having debauched the wife of a gentleman, at last wears horns himself Novel IV. Presumptuous attempt of a gentleman upon a Princess of Flanders, and the shame it brought upon him ..•••• Novel V. A boatwoman escapes from two Cordeliers, who wanted to force her, and exposes them to public derision ...... Novel VI. Stratagem by which a woman enabled her gallant to escape, when her husband, who was blind of an eye, thought to surprise them together . Novel VII. Trick put by a mercer of Paris upon an old woman to conceal his intrigue with her daughter ....... Paob. I II 18 21 26 3 * 34 37 X Contents. Novel VIII A man having lain with his wife, believing that he was in bed with his servant, sends his friend to do the same thing ; and the friend makes a cuckold of him without the wife being aware of it . Novel IX. Deplorable death of a lover in consequence of his knowing too late that he was beloved by his mistress ... ... Novel X. The loves of Amadour and Florida, wherein are seen several strata¬ gems and dissimulations, and the exemplary chastity of Florida . SECOND DAY. Novel XI. An odorous adventure which befell Madame de Roncex at the Fran¬ ciscan Monastery of Thouars. Facetious sayings of a Cordelier in his sermons • • • • Novel XII. Incontinence and tyranny of a Duke of Florence—Just punishment of his wickedness ......... Novel XIII. A captain of a galley, under the cloak of devotion, fell in love with a demoiselle—What happened in consequence . . : • Novel XIV. Subtlety of a lover, who, counterfeiting the real favourite, found means to recompense himself for his past troubles ..... Novel XV. A lady of the court, seeing herself neglected by her husband, whose love was bestowed elsewhere, retaliated upon him ... Novel XVI. A Milanese lady tested her lover’s courage, and afterwards loved him heartily ........... Novel XVII. King Francis gives a signal proof of his courage in the case of Count Guillaume, who designed his death. PAGS 39 44 49 73 77 8o 86 94 IOO III "5 Contents . xi Novel XVIII. A. lady tests the fidelity of a young student, her lover, before granting him her favours Novel XIX. Two lovers, in despair at being hindered from marrying, turn monk and nun ... . Novel XX. A gentleman finds his cruel fair one in the arms of her groom, and is cured at once of his love.. THIRD DAY Novel XXI. Virtuous love of a young lady of quality and a bastard of an illus¬ trious house—Hinderance of their marriage by a queen—Sage reply of the demoiselle to the queen—Her subsequent marriage . Novel XXII. A hypocritical prior tries every means to seduce a nun, but at last his villainy is discovered .. Novel XXIII. A Cordelier who was the cause of three murders, that of husband, wife, and child . .. • • Novel XXIV. Ingenious device of a Castilian in order to make a declaration of love to a queen, and what came of it.. Novel XXV. Cunning contrivance of a young prince to enjoy the wife of an advo¬ cate of Paris ..... • • • • Novel XXVI. By the advice and sisterly affection of a virtuous lady, the lord of Avannes was weaned from his dissolute amours with a lady of Pampeluna. Novel XXVII. A secretary had the impudence to solicit the favours of his host's wife, and had only the shame for his pains. PAG! 118 123 130 134 150 160 166 173 179 190 xii Contents. Novel XXVIII. A secretary, thinking to dupe a certain person, was himself duped . Novel XXIX. A villager, whose wife intrigued with the parish priest, suffered him¬ self to be easily deceived Novel XXX. Notable example of human frailty in a lady who, to conceal an evil, commits a still greater one FOURTH DA Y. Novel XXXI. A monastery of Cordeliers was burned, and the monks in it, in per¬ petual memory of the cruelty of one of them who was in love with a lady ».••••••••• Novel XXXII. A husband surprises his wife in flagrante delicto, and subjects her to a punishment more terrible than death itself .... Novel XXXIII. Incest of a priest, who got his sister with child under the cloak of sanctity, and how it was punished ...... Novel XXXIV. Two over-inquisitive Cordeliers had a great fright, which had like to cost them their lives ......... Novel XXXV. Contrivance of a sensible husband to cure his wife of her passion for a Cordelier ...... ..... Novel XXXVI. A President of Grenoble, becoming aware of his wife's irregularities, took his measures so wisely that he revenged himself without any public exposure of his dishonour ....... Novel XXXVII. Judicious proceedings of a wife to withdraw her husband from a low intrigue with which he was infatuated ...... PAG* 192 195 197 205 209 213 216 220 226 231 Contents. Novel XXXVIII. Memorable charity of a lady of Tours with regard to her faithless hus¬ band «•••*•« ti». Novel XXXIX. Secret for driving away the hobgoblin ...... Novel XL. The Count de Jossebelin has his brother-in-law put to death, not knowing the relationship . . FIFTH DAY. Novel XLI. Strange and novel penance imposed by a Cordelier confessor on a young lady... Novel XLII. Chaste perseverance of a maiden, who resisted the obstinate pursuit of one of the greatest lords in France—Agreeable issue of the affair for the demoiselle.. Novel XLIII. Hypocrisy of a court lady discovered by the denouement of her amours, which she wished to conceal .. Novel XLIV. A Cordelier received a double alms for telling the plain truth . How two lovers cleverly consummated their amours, the issue of which was happy. Novel XLV. A husband, giving the Innocents to his servant girl, plays upon his wife’s simplicity .......... Novel XLVI. A sanctimonious Cordelier attempts to debauch the wife of a judge, and actually ravishes a young lady, whose mother had foolishly authorised him to chastise her for lying too late in bed . A Cordelier’s sermons on the subject of husbands beating their wives . .. xiii FAGS 235 237 239 246 250 258 263 266 272 277 279 xiv Contents . Novel XLVII. A gentlemen ot the Pays du Perche, distrusting his friend, obliges him to do him the mischief of which he has falrely suspected him Novel XLVII I. A Cordelier took the husband’s place on his wedding-night, while the latter was dancing with the bridal party ..... Novel XLIX. Of a countess who diverted herself adroitly with love sport, and how her game was discovered ........ Novel L. A lover, after a blood-letting, receives favours from his mistress, dies in consequence, and is followed by the fair one, who sinks under her grief.. SIXTH DAY, Novel LI. Perfidy and cruelty of an Italian duke Novel LII. A nasty breakfast given to an advocate and a gentleman by an apothecary’s man . . ....... Novel LIII. Madame de Neufchastel, by her dissimulation, forced the Prince of Belhoste to put her to such a proof as turned to her dishonour Novel LIV. A lady laughed to see her husband kissing her servant, and, being asked the reason, replied that she laughed at her shadow . . Novel LV. Cunning device of a Spanish widow to defraud the Mendicant Friars of a testamentary bequest made to them by her husband . Novel LVI. A pious lady having asked a Cordelier to provide a good husband for her daughter, he marries another Cordelier to the young lady, and possesses himself of her dowry—The cheat is discovered and punished . . . . . . . . * . . . pag* 282 286 288 293 297 301 3°4 309 312 3*4 Contents. Novel LVII. Of a ridiculous milord who wore a lady’s glove on his dress-coat , Novel LVIII How a lady of the court pleasantly revenged herself on her faithless lover . Novel LIX. The same lady, whose husband was jealous of her without just cause, contrives to detect him in such a position with one of her women that he is obliged to humble himself, and allow his wife to live as she pleases ........... Novel LX. A woman of Paris quits her husband for one of the king’s chanters, counterfeits death, and is buried, but secretly disinterred alive and well—Her husband marries another wife, and fifteen years after- wards is obliged to repudiate her, and take back his first wife • SEVENTH DAY. Novel LXI. • A husband became reconciled to his wife after she had lived fourteen or fifteen years with a canon., Novel LXII. A lady recounting an adventure of gallantry that had occurred to her¬ self, and speaking in the third person, inadvertently betrayed her own secret. Novel LXIII. Notable chastity of a French lord . . • • • • • Novel LXIV. A gentleman, having been unable to marry a person he loves, be¬ comes a Cordelier in despite—Sore distress of his mistress thereat Novel LXV. Simplicity of an old woman, who presented a lighted candle to Saint Jean de Lyon, and wanted to fasten it on the forehead of a soldier who was sleeping on a tomb—What happened in consequence . Novel LXVI. Amusing adventure of Monsieur de Vendome and the Princess of Navarre... , • • « XV PACK 319 322 325 330 335 340 342 345 349 350 XVI Contents. Novel LXVII. Lo ve and extreme hardships of a woman in a foreign land • Novel LXVIII. A woman gives her husband powder of cantharides to make him love her, and goes near to killing him ... ... Novel LX IX. . An Italian suffered himself to be duped by his servant maid, and was caught by his wife boking meal in place of the girl Novel LXX. The horrible incontinence and malice of a Duchess of Burgundy was the cause of her death, and of that of two persons who fondly loved each other.. , EIGHTH DAY. Novei LXXI. A woman at the point of death flew into such a violent passion at seeing her husband kiss her servant that she recovered ... Novel LXXII. Continual repentance of a nun who had lost her virginity without violence and without love ........ PAGE 353 356 358 360 379 481 MEMOIR OF LOUISE OF SAVOY, DUCHESS OF ANGOULfeME, AND OF HER DAUGHTER, MARGARET, QUEEN OF NAVARRE. Two children were born of the marriage of Charles of Orleans, Count of Angouleme, a prince of the blood royal of France, and Louise, the daughter of Philip Duke of Savoy, and Margaret of Bourbon. The eider of the two was Margaret, the principal subject of this memoir, born on the nth of April, 1492 ; the younger, born on the 12th of September, 1494, was the prince who succeeded Louis XII. on the throne of France, February, 1515, under the name of Francis I. Married when she was little more than eleven years old, Louise of Savoy was left a widow before she had completed her eighteenth year, and thenceforth devoted herself with exemplary assiduity to the care of her children, who repaid her solicitude by the warm affection they always felt for their mother and for each other. She was a woman of remarkable beauty and capacity, and her charac¬ ter and conduct were deserving, in many respects, of the eulogies which her daughter never wearied of lavishing upon them ; but less partial writers have convicted her of criminal acts which brought disasters upon her son and her country. In the first year of his reign, Francis I. committed the regency of the kingdom to his mother, and set out on his expedition to Italy. He was absent but a few months ; nevertheless, this first regency enabled Louise of Savoy to fill the most important offices with men entirely devoted to her interests, and even to her caprices, and to gratify by any and every means the insatiable thirst for money with which she was cursed. In the beginning of the year 1522, Lautrec, one of the king’s favourites, who commanded his forces in Italy, lost in a few days b xviii Memoir of Margaret , all the advantages which Francis had gained by the victory of Marignano. He returned to Paris with only two attendants, and sought an audience of the king, who refused at first to receive him. Finally, at the intercession of the Constable of Bourbon, Francis allowed Lautrec to appear before him, and, after loading him with reproaches, demanded what excuse he could offer for himself. Lautrec calmly replied, “ The troops I commanded, not having been paid, refused to follow Vne, and I was left alone.”—“ What ! ” said the king, “ I sent you four hundred thousand crowns to Genoa, and Semblangay, the superintendent of finance, forwarded you three hundred thousand .”—“ Sire, I have received nothing.”— Semblan^ay being summoned to the presence, “ Father,” said the king (who addressed him in that way on account of his great age), “ come hither and tell us if you have not, in pursuance of my order, sent M. de Lautrec the sum of three hundred thousand crowns ? ”—“ Sire,” replied the superintendent, “ I am prepared to prove that I delivered that sum to the duchess your mother, that she might employ it as you say.”—“ Very well,” said the king, and went into his mother’s room to question her. Louise of Savoy threw the whole blame on Semblangay, who was immediately confronted with her. He persisted in his first statement, and the duchess was forced to confess that she had received the greater part of the sum in question, but she alleged that the money was due to her by the superintendent, and she did not see why her private income should be applied to the Italian expedition. Francis most bitterly upbraided his mother for thus embezzling the money of the state, but his wrath fell more heavily on the minister, whom he found to have been guilty of culpable complaisance towards her. The unfortunate Semblangay was arrested, commissioners were appointed to examine his accounts, and, being condemned by their report, he was hung on the gibbet at Monfaucon, on the 9th of August, 1527. Louise of Savoy was deeply implicated in a still fouler transac¬ tion, which was attended with the most terrible consequences. This was the iniquitous lawsuit brought against the Constable ol Bourbon, which was followed. by. his desertion and treason. According to all historians, the insensate love of the Duchess of Angouleme, then aged fourty-four, for the constable, who was but thirty-two, was the sole cause of this suit ; but her cupidity, and the secret jealousy with which Francis I. regarded one of the hand¬ somest, wealthiest, and bravest men in his kingdom, also contri¬ buted to that result. The object of the suit was to wrest from the xix Queen of Navarre. constable the lordships bequeathed to him by Suzanne be Beaujeu, one of the richest heiresses in Europe, and to which Louise of Savoy laid claim as next of kin to the deceased. She did so at the instigation of the Chancellor Duprat, whose reasonings on this subject we are enabled to give in his own words, as follows :— “ The marriage of M. Charles de Bourbon with Madame Suzanne was nothing else than a mere shift to stop the action at law which the said lord was ready to move against Madame de Bourbon and her daughter, on account of the estates of appanage and others entailed on the marriage of Jean de Bourbon and Maria of Berry. The mere apprehension of this contest made the said Madame de Bourbon condescend thereto, and to that end shf dissolved the contract passed between M. d’Alen^on and Madame Suzanne. Hence there is a likelihood that a similar apprehension of a suit to be promoted for the whole inheritance of the house by two stronger parties than was then the said Lord of Bourbon, who was neither old enough nor strong enough to prosecute it, as the king and his mother will be, may cause some overtures to be made on the one side or the other to compromise and allay this difference. “ M. de Bourbon is now but thirty-two, and Madame, the king’s mother, cannot be more than forty at most, which is not too ais- proportioned an age for so great a lady, handsome, rich, and so highly qualified. Should the said Lord of Bourbon agree to this marriage, why there she is at the point she desires, Duchess of Bourbonnais and Auvergne, and lady of that great heritage. If, on the contrary, he refuses, it will be necessary to bring this action, prosecute it vigorously, employ in it the authority of the king and my lady his mother, and spare nought to further it. This will make him bethink himself, however intractable he may be, and he will be very glad to return into favour by this means. If not, as he is a courageous prince, when he finds himself threatened with the loss of all his possessions, titles, and dignities, he will do something extraordinary, and will choose rather to abandon his country (as M. du Bellay says) than to live in it in a necessitous condition. He will withdraw out of the realm, and by so doing he will confiscate all. So that he cannot fail to do what is desired, be it how it may.”* The Constable of Bourbon having rejected, and even it is said with disdain, the offer of marriage made to him, the s»:» r * Histoire de Bourbon , p. 226 r°. Des desseins des profess o>ts nobles tk ubUgues, &c. &c. Far Ant. de Laval. Paris, 1605. XX Memoir of Margot et, brought before the parliament, and was decided in favour of the Duchess of Angouleme. But the pleasure brought her by this triumph over her haughty adversary was not of long duration. A few months after he was despoiled of all his estates, Charles of Bourbon quitted France, and entered the service of Charles V. In the following year, 1524, he drove the French out of Italy, and on the 24th of February, 1525, he defeated them in the famous battle of Pavia, in which Francis I. was taken prisoner, after receiving five wounds. The Duchess of Angouleme, as Regent of France, displayed great courage and ability under this heavy calamity. She soon received from her captive son the letter con¬ taining that memorable phrase —“ De ioutes choses ne invest demeuri que Vhonneur , et la vie qui est sauve ”—“ I have lost all but honour and life.'” This letter was a great joy to her. Margaret wrote respecting it to her brother, “ Your letter has had such an effect of Madame, and of all those who love you, that it has been to us a Holy Ghost after the sorrow of the passion. . . . Madame has felt her strength so greatly redoubled, that all day and evening not a minute is lost for your affairs, so that you need not have any pain or care about your realm and your children.” After taking all necessary measures for the internal defence of the kingdom, the regent and her daughter took up their residence at Lyon, for the purpose of the more readily receiving news from Italy. There they learned that Charles V. had removed his prisoner to Madrid, and that he was becoming more and more exacting in the conditions for his release. Francis I. wrote to his mother that he was very ill, and begged her to come to him ; but in spite of her love for her son, she felt that she could not comply with his request, for it would have been risking the fate of the monarchy to put the regent along with the King of France into the Emperor’s hands. Sacrificing, therefore, her feelings as a mother to the requirements of the state, she sent her daughter Margaret instead of herself to Madrid. After she had done her part to the utmost for her son’s release, and in the negotiations for the treaty of peace which was concluded at Cambria on the 5th of August, 1529, the Duchess of Angouleme took no further share in the government of the realm. She had repaired, as far as it was possible for her, the misfortunes earned by her conduct with regard to the constable. Her labours as regent, during her son’s captivity, had completely ruined her health, which had begun to fail before that event. In September, 1531, she was at Fontainebleau with her daughter and all the other ladies Queen of Navarre xxi uf her court; the plague was raging in the neighbourhood, and Louise, who had a great dread of death, was incessantly occupied with medicine and new receipts against disorders of all kinds. Her spirits were very low, and her countenance so changed as scarcely to be recognised by her daughter. “ If you would like to know her pastime,” Margaret writes to her brother, “it is that, after dinner, when she has given audience, instead of doing her customary works, she sends for all those who have any malady, whether in the legs, arms or breasts, and with her own hand she dresses them by way of trying an ointment she has, which is very singular.” This horror at the thought of death was common to both mother and daughter. Brantome says of the former, “ She was in her time, as I have heard many say who have seen and known her, a very fine lady, but very worldly withal, and was the same in her declining age, and hated to hear discourse of death, even from preachers in their sermons : as if, said she, we did not know well enough that we must all die some time or other ; and these preachers, when they have nothing else to say in their sermons, like ignorant persons, fall to talking of death. The late Queen of Navarre, her daughter, liked no more than her mother these repetitions and preachings concern¬ ing death.”* A few days after the date of the letter quoted in the last para¬ graph, Louise of Savoy quitted Fontainebleau for change of air, but was obliged to stop at Gr£s, a little village of the Gatinais, where she died on the 22nd of September, 1531. We now turn to her daughter’s history. Charles of Austria, Count of Flanders, afterwards the Emperor Charles V., was residing at the court of Louis XII. when Margaret of Angouleme appeared there accompanying her brother on his en¬ trance into public life. The Count of Flanders was much struck by her appearance and her accomplishments, and eagerly sought her in marriage. But Louis XII. refused to bestow upon him the sister of the heir presumptive of the throne of France, and chose rather to marry her in the following year, December, 1509, to Charles, Duke of Alengon, a prince of the royal family. Historians have treated the memory of Margaret’s first husband with excessive severity. He had the misfortune to escape un¬ wounded from the fatal battle of Pavia, while endeavouring to save the remains of the routed army ; and it has been alleged that on his arrival at Lyon, where he found his wife and mother-in-law, he * Dames Galantes. zxii Memoir of Margaret , was received by them both with the most contumelious reproaches, and that, unable to endure his shame and remorse, he died a few days after. That is not true. The battle of Pavia was fought on the 24th of February, 1525, and the Duke of Alengon did not die until the nth of April, that is to say, more than a month after his arrival in Lyon. It appears from the testimony of an eye-witness, brought to light by the last editors of the Heptameron, that he was carried off by a pleurisy in five days, that he was comforted on his death-bed by his wife and her mother, that he spoke with profound regret of the king’s misfortune, but that nothing escaped his own lips or those of the two ladies to indicate the faintest idea on either side that he had not done his duty at Pavia. The first five years of Margaret’s wedded life were passed in privacy in her duchy of Alengon, but from the date of her brother’s accession to the throne, in January, 1515, her talents were employed with advantage in affairs of state. “ Such was her discourse,” says Brantome, “ that the ambassadors who addressed her were ex¬ tremely taken with it, and gave a high character of it to their countrymen on their return, and by this she became a good assist¬ ant to the king her brother : for they always waited on her after their principle audience, and frequently, when he had affairs of im¬ portance, he referred them entirely to her determination, she so well knowing how to engage and entertain them with her fine speeches, and being very artful and dexterous in pumping out their secrets: these qualifications the king would often say made her of great use to him in facilitating his affairs. So that I have heard there was an emulation between the two sisters who should serve her brother best ; the one—the Queen of Hungary—her brother the emperor, the other, her brother King Francis ; but the former by war and force, the latter by the activity of her fine wit and complaisance. . . . During the imprisonment of the king her brother, she was of great assistance to the regent her mother in governing the kingdom, keeping the princes and grandees quiet, and gaining upon the nobility; for she was of very easy access, and won the hearts of all people by the fine accomplishments she was mistress of.”* The death of her husband, without children, six weeks after the battle of Pavia, left Margaret free to act as became her intense affection for her mother and her brother, who both had the most urgent need of her help. With the emperor’s permission she em- oarked at Aigues Mortes for Spain, in spite of contrary winds, on * Brantome, Dames Illustres xxm Queen of Navarre. the 27th of August, 1525 ; hastened to Madrid, “and found her brother in so wretched a condition that had she not come he had died ; because she understood his temper and constitution better than all his physicians could do, and caused him to be treated ac¬ cordingly, which entirely recovered him : so that the king would often say that without her he must have died ; and that he was so much obliged to her for it that he should for ever acknowledge it, and love her (as he did) to his dying day.”* The task which Margaret had to accomplish at Madrid was one of great difficulty. In spite of the apparent cordiality with whirl* she was universally treated at the imperial court, and the very favourable disposition Charles V. always evinced in words, she soon perceived the hollowness of his friendly protestations. “Every¬ one tells me that he likes the king,” she says in one of her letters, tf but the experience thereof is small. If I had to do with good men, who understood what honour is, I should not care ; but it is the reverse.” Fortunately she was not one to give way before the first difficulties. She tried in the beginning to win over some great personages in the imperial court, but afterwards perceiving that the men always avoided talking with her upon any serious topic, she took care to address herself to their mothers, wives, or daughters. In a letter to Marshal de Montmorency she says of the Duke de Infantado, who had invited her to his castle of Guadalaxara, “ You will tell the king that the duke has been warned from the court,, that as he desires to please the emperor, neither he nor his son is to speak to me ; but the ladies are not forbidden me, and I shall speak to them doubly.” As for Margaret’s behaviour towards Charles V., let us again have recourse to Brantome, whom we shall quote as often as we can : “ She spoke so bravely and so handsomely to the emperor con¬ cerning his bad treatment of the king her brother that he was quite astonished, setting before him his ingratitude and felony wherewith he, the vassal, dealt towards his lord on account of Flanders; then she reproached him with the hardness of his heart for being so de¬ void of pity with regard to so great and so good a king ; and said that acting in that manner was not the way to win a heart so noble and royal and so sovereign as that of the king her brother ; and that, should he die in consequence of his rigorous treatment, his death would not remain unpunished, for he had childien who would be grown up some day, and would take signal vengeance. These words, pronounced so bravely, and with so much passion, made the * Brantome;, Dames Illustres. *xnr Memoir of Margaret , emperor bethink himself, so that he moderated his behaviour, and visited the king, and promised him many fine things, which he did not, however, perform for that time. But if this queen spoke so well to the emperor, she did still more so to those of his council, where she had audience, and where she triumphed with her fine speaking and graceful manner, of which she had no lack.” Margaret took great pains to hasten the conclusion of the mar¬ riage between Francis I. and Eleonore of Austria, widow of the King of Portugal, rightly regarding the alliance as the surest means of a prompt deliverance. Though the royal widow had been pro¬ mised to the Constable of Bourbon, the emperor did not hesitate to sacrifice his engagement with the illustrious deserter to the inte¬ rests of his policy. He himself, fascinated by Margaret’s talent and graces, entertained for a moment the idea of a union with her, and sent a letter to the regent containing a distinct proposal to that effect. In the same letter the emperor said, with reference to the Constable of Bourbon, that “ there were good marriages in France, and quite enough for him ; naming Madame Renee, with whom he might content himself.” These words have been understood to imply that there had been some question of a marriage between the Duchess of Alengon and the constable, but there is no evidence to warrant such a conjecture. There is no mention of anything of the sort in any of the diplomatic pieces exchanged between France and Spain on the subject of the king’s liberation. They stipulate that the constable shall be restored to all his possessions, and even that a wife shall be procured for him in France ; but Margaret’s name nowhere appears in them, nor does she herself ever speak of the constable in any of her numerous letters. The story of an amour between those two persons, which is told by Varillas in his Histoire de Francois I., and which forms the main subject of a fictitious Histoire de Marguerite, published in 1696, is totally without foun¬ dation. After three months and a half of negotiations, Margaret and her brother saw the necessity of providing for the safety of the crown and government of France in case the king’s captivity should be perpetual ; and Francis signed an edict, in 1525, by which he ordained that the young dauphin should be immediately crowned ; that the regency should remain in his mother’s hands, but that in case of her being disabled by sickness or other impediment, or b> death, from exercising it, then it should devolve upon his “ most dear and most beloved and only sister, Margaret of France, Duchess of Alengon and Berry.” XXX Queen of Navarre. It has been erroneously asserted that Margaret carried with her this act of abdication when she quitted Spain, and that because the emperor was aware of this fact he gave orders that she should be arrested the very moment her safe-conduct expired. It was Marshal de Montmorency who carried the act of abdication to France, and, in designing to seize the person of the princess, Charles V. had no other object in view than to secure to himself a fresh hostage in case the treaty should not be executed. At her brother’s instance, Margaret applied to the imperial court for permission to quit Spain. It was granted her, but in such a manner as plainly showed her there was more wish to retard her journey than to speed her upon it. She left Madrid in the beginning of December, and travelled at first by easy stages, until word was sent her by her brother that she should hasten ; for the emperor, hoping that on the 25th of the month—on which day her safe-conduct was to expire—she would be still in Spain, had given orders for her arrest. Thereupon she quitted her litter, got on horseback, and, making as much way in one day as she had previously done in four, she arrived at Salses, where some French lords awaited her, one hour before the expiry of the safe-conduct. In return for all Margaret’s pains to hasten his deliverance, Francis I. could not do less than procure for her a fit husband. Negotiations were opened on the subject with Henry VIII. of England, but happily they came to nothing. There was at the court of France a young king—one, indeed, who was without a king¬ dom, but not without eminent advantages, both of mind and person. This was Henri d’Albret, Count of Bdarn, legitimate sovereign of Navarre, which was withheld from him by Charles V., contrary to treaty. Henri had been taken prisoner at the battle of Pavia, and had made his escape after a captivity of about two months, by letting himself down from the window by means of a rope. Having lived some time at the court of France, he was well known to Mar¬ garet, and there is every reason to believe that the marriage was one of inclination—on her side, at least. It was celebrated, therefore, notwithstanding a considerable disparity of age, at Saint Germain en Laye, in January, 1527. Henri d’Albret received as his wife’s portion the duchies of Alengon and Berry, and the counties of Armagnac and Perche which Francis entailed on his sister’s issue, whether male or female- He also pledged himself in the marriage contract to force the emperor immediately to restore Navarre to his brother-in-law. Margaret repeatedly urged him to fulfil this promise, and she speaks xxvi Memoir of Margaret , of it in many of her letters ; but political exigencies always prevailed against her ; and there was even a clause inserted in a protocol relative to the deliverance of the children of France, which ran thus : “ Item, the same king promises not to assist or favour the King of Navarre to reconquer his kingdom, albeit he has married his most beloved and only sister.” The indifference of Francis l. with regard to the political fortunes of his brother-in-law, notwithstanding the numerous and signal ser¬ vices the latter had rendered him, disgusted the young prince, and he resolved to quit the court, where Montmorency, Brion, and several other persons, his declared enemies, were in the ascendant. He put his design into execution in 1529, after the conclusion oi the treaty of Cambrai, and Margaret retired with him to Bearn, where she diligently applied herself, in conjunction with her hus¬ band, to all measures capable of raising their dominions to a more flourishing condition, as we learn from Hilarion dela Coste. “ This country,” he says, “naturally good and fruitful, but lying in a bad state, uncultivated and barren, through the negligence of its in¬ habitants, quickly changed its face by their management. They in¬ vited husbandmen out of all the provinces of France, who occupied, improved, and fertilised the lands ; they caused the towns to be adorned and fortified, houses and castles to be built ; that of Pau among others, with the finest gardens which were then in Europe. After having fitted up a handsome place of residence, they gave orders about laws and good government ; they established, for the differences of their subjects, a court to determine them without appeal ; and they reformed the common law of Oleron, which was used in that country, and which, since its last reformation in 1288, had been greatly corrupted. By their conversation and court they greatly civilised the people ; and, to guard themselves against a new usurpation from Spain, they covered themselves with Navar- rins—a town upon one of the Gaves, which they fortified with strong ramparts, bastions, and half-moons, according to the art then in use.” “ This,” says Bayle, “ is one of the finest encomiums that could be bestowed on the Queen of Navarre.” After the death of her first husband, Margaret retained full pos¬ session of the Duchy of AltnQon, not only as regarded its revenues, but also its civil and political administration. She always watched over that principality with great solicitude. As she never could reside in it except for very brief intervals, she was carelui to com¬ mit its government to able men, whose conduct fully justified her choice. xxvii Queen of Navarre. It was chiefly during her frequent and long residerces in her principality of Bearn that the Queen of Navarre had opportunities of conferring with the advocates of the Reformation, and there many of them, including Andrew Melanchthon, Gdrard Roussel, Leievre d’Etaple, Pierre Calvi, Charles de Sainte Marthe, and Calvin himself, found a refuge with her from persecution. The ques¬ tion whether or not Margaret ever seriously entertained the thought of abjuring the Church of Rome has been much debated by His¬ torians ; but that she very much inclined to the opinions of the Reformers is not disputed either by Protestant or Catholic writers ; both sides confess the fact. Florimond de Remond says, in his History of the Birth and Progress of Heresy : “ It is particularly observed by all the historians of both parties that this princess was the sole cause, without designing any ill, of the preservation of the French Lutherans, and that the Church, which afterwards took the name of Reformed, was not stifled in its cradle ; for, besides that she lent an ear to their discourses, which at first were specious, and not so bold as afterwards, she, with a good intention, maintained a great many of them in schools at her own expense, not only in France, but also in Germany. She took a wonderful care to pre¬ serve and secure those that were in danger for the Protestant religion, and to succour the refugees at Strasburg and Geneva. Thither she sent to the learned at one time a benefaction of four thousand livres. . . » . In short, this good-natured princess had nothing more at heart for those nine or ten years than to pro¬ cure the escape of such as the king exposed to the rigour of justice. She frequently talked to him of it, and by little touches endeavoured to impress on his soul some pity for the Lutherans.” Margaret’s influence would perhaps have induced Francis to favour the Reformation if the extravagance of some hot-headed people, who posted up certain placards in the year 1534, had not ex¬ asperated him to such a degree as to make him become afterwards a violent persecutor of Lutheranism—the name then given in France to what has since been called Calvinism. She w r as obliged, from that time, to act with great caution, and to conduct herself in such a manner as the Calvinists have highly condemned, and which gave occasion to the Papists to say that she perfectly renounced her errors. Brantome, after saying that this queen was suspected of Lutheranism, adds, that u out of respect and love to her brother, who loved her entirely, and always called her his darling, she never made any profession or appearance of it; and if she be¬ lieved it, she always kept it to herself with very great seciesy Kxviii Memoir of Margaret, because the king violently hated it, declaring that this and every new sect tended more to the destruction of kingdoms, monarchies and dominions, than to the edification of souls.” Others believe that it was not possible for Francis I. to be ignorant that the. Queen of Navarre was a Lutheran in her heart ; her attachments to the party, and the protection she gave the fugitives for this cause, were not such things as could be concealed from the King of France; he only affected not to know them. “The Constable de Montmorency, discoursing . . . one day with the king, made no difficulty or scruple to tell him that if he would quite exterminate the heretics of this kingdom he must begin with his court and with his nearest relations, naming the queen his sister. To this the king answered, ‘ Let us not speak of that ; she loves me too much ; she will never believe but what I believe, or take up a religion to the prejudice of my state/ ” * Catholic writers assert that some years before her death the Queen of Navarre acknowledged her religious errors ; and De Remond even goes so far as to imply that she denied on her death¬ bed having ever swerved from the standard of Roman orthodoxy. Bayle comments on the remarks of this writer in a singularly earnest and noble passage. “ I do not examine,” he says, “whether Florimond de Remond has it from good authority that she protested at her death that what she had done for the followers of the new opinions proceeded rather from compassion than from any ill-will to the ancient religion of her fathers. But, granting her protestation to be sin¬ cere, I maintain that there was something more heroic in her com¬ passion and generosity than there would have been had she been persuaded that the fugitives she protected were orthodox. For a princess or any other woman to do good to those whom she takes to be of the household of the faith is no extraordinary thing, but the common effect of a moderate piety. But for a queen to grant her protection to people persecuted for opinions which she believes to be false ; to open a sanctuary to them ; to preserve them from the flames prepared for them ; to furnish them with a subsistence ; liberally to relieve the troubles and inconveniences of their exile, is an heroic magnanimity which has hardly any precedent ; it is the effect of a superiority of reason and genius which very few can reach to; it is the knowing how to pity the misfortune of those who err, and admire at the same time their constancy to the die- * Bran to me, Dames Illustres. xxnr Queen of Na oar re. tates of their conscience ; it is the knowing how to do justice to their good intentions, and to the zeal they express for truth in general; it is the knowing that they are mistaken in the hypo¬ thesis, but that in the thesis they conform to the immutable and eternal laws of order, which require us to love the truth, and to sacrifice to that the temporal conveniences and pleasures of life ; it is, in a word, the knowing how to distinguish in one and the same person his opposition to particular truths which he does not know, and his love for truth in general ; a love which he evidences by his great zeal for the doctrines he believes to be true. Such was the judicious distinction the Queen of Navarre was able to make It is difficult for all sorts of persons to arrive at this science ; but more especially difficult for a princess like her, who had been educated in the communion of Rome, where nothing has been talked of for many ages but fagots and gibbets for those who err. Family prejudices strongly fortified all the obstacles which education had laid in the way of this princess ; for she entirely loved the king her brother, an implacable persecutor of those they called heretics, a people whom he caused to be burned without mercy wherever the indefatigable vigilance of informers discovered them. I cannot conceive by what method this Queen of Navarre raised herself to so high a pitch of equity, reason, and good sense : it was not through an indifference as to religion, since it is certain she had a great degree of piety, and studied the Scriptures with singular application. It must, therefore, have been the excellence of her genius, and the greatness of her soul, that discovered a path to her which scarcely anyone knows. It will be said, perhaps, that she needed only to consult the primitive and general ideas of order, which most clearly show that involuntary errors hinder not a man who entirely loves God, as he has been able to discover him after all possible inquiries, from being reckoned a servant of the true God, and that we ought to respect in him the rights of the true God. But I might immediately answer that this maxim is of itself subject to great disputes, so far is it from being clear and evident ; besides that these primitive ideas hardly ever appear to our understanding without limitations and modifications which obscure them a hundred ways, according to the different prejudices contracted by education. The spirit of party, attachment to a sect, and even zeal for orthodoxy, produce a kind of ferment in the humours of our body ; and hence the medium through which reason ought to behold those primitive ideas is clouded and ob¬ scured. These are infirmities which will attend our reason as long jcxx Memoir oj Margaret , as it shall depend on the ministry of organs. It is the same thing to it as the low and middle region of the air, the seat of vapours and meteors. There are but very few persons who can rise above these clouds, and place themselves in a true serenity. If anyone could do it, we must say of him what Virgil said of Daphnis : Candidus insuetum miratur lumen Olympi, Sub pedibusque videt nubes et sidera Daphnis." We have seen how the Constable de Montmorency endeavoured to poison the mind of Francis I. against his sister. Margaret heard of this, and resented it the more strongly, as she had always behaved to Montmorency as a friend, and especially she had es¬ poused his interests in opposition to those of his rival, Admiral Brion. The sequel of this affair, as related by Brantome, is curious : “ She never afterwards liked the constable, and she helped greatly towards his disgrace and banishment from court : insomuch that the day on which Madam the Princess of Navarre” (Margaret’s only daughter) “ was married to the Duke of Cleves at Chasteleraud, as she was to be led to church, being so heavily laden with jewels, and cloth of gold and silver, that by reason of the weakness of her body she could not walk” (she was but twelve years old), “the king commanded the constable to take his little niece in his arms and carry her to the church ; at which the whole court was very much surprised, as being an office not suitable or honourable enough in such a ceremony for the constable, and which might have been given to some other ; wherewith the Queen of Navarre seemed not at all displeased, and said, ‘ There is a man who would ruin me with the king my brother, and who serves at present to carry my daughter to church.’ I have this story from the person I have mentioned, and also that the constable was much displeased with this office, and greatly mortified to be made such a spectacle to all the company, and said, ‘ There is an end of all my favour; farewell, host.’ And so it happened ; for after the enter¬ tainment and the wedding dinner he was dismissed, and departed immediately.” Judging from several original portraits of Margaret which are preserved in the libraries of France, her last editors infer that her beauty, so much celebrated by the poets of her time, consisted chiefly in the dignity of her deportment, and the sweet and cheer¬ ful expression of her countenance. Her eyes, nose, and mouth were large. She retained no marks of the small-pox with which XXA Queen oj Navarre. she was attacked before middle age, and she preserved the fresh¬ ness of her complexion to a late peiod. Like her brother, to whom she bore a strong likeness, she was tall and stately ; but her imposing air was tempered by extreme affability and a merry humour. Her enthusiastic panegyrist, Sainte Marthe, says of her, “Seeing her humanely receive everybody, refuse none, and pa¬ tiently listen to each, thou wouldst have promised thyself an easy access to her ; but if she cast her eyes on thee, there was in her face I know not what divinity, that would have so confounded thee that thou wouldst have been unable, I do not say to walk one step, but even to stir one foot to approach her.” Though conforming on special occasions to her brother’s sumptuous tastes, Margaret’s personal habits were remarkably simple. She dressed plainly, and, after the loss of her infant son, almost always in black. Brantome, speaking of the extravagant pomp displayed by Caesar Borgia when he visited France, remarks that the great Queen of Navarre never had more than “ three sumpter mules and six for her litters, though she had three or four chariots for her ladies.” Her oiographers have generally asserted that this frugality was im¬ posed on Margaret by the precarious state of her fortune ; but it is rather to be attributed to her sober character and her munificent charity. The supposition that her means were inadequate to her rank is manifestly erroneous ; for at the very time when they are said to have been lowest, we find her declining to receive from Henry II. payment of a considerable sum lent five-and-twenty years before to his predecessor in a moment of financial difficulty and desiring that the amount should be given to the sisters of her first husband, the Duke d’Alengon. Distinguished as Margaret was by her mental powers and graces, she was still more admirable for the warmth and tenderness of her affections. These, it is to be feared, were but inadequately requited, and would have been a source of unhappiness to her, were it not for that precious prerogative which loving natures enjoy, to find pleasure in self-sacrifice and suffering. There was little community of feeling between her and the Duke d’Alengon, and their marriage was childless. The husband of her choice, Henry of Navarre, was a handsome, brave cavalier, of respectable capacity, and passably good-humoured, but he had little sympathy with his wife’s literary and theological tastes, and the difference in their ages was not favourable to connubial concord. It is even said that he treated her at times with a roughness unworthy of a hreux chevalier . Hilarion de la Coste says that Henry, “ having jcxxii Memoir of Margaret , been informed that there was used in his wife’s chamber some form of prayer and instruction contrary to that of his fathers., entered it with a resolution to punish the minister, but, finding they had contrived his escape, the weight of his anger fell upon the queen, to whom he gave a box on the ear, saying to her, ‘ Madam, you want to be too knowing;’ and immediately gave advice of it to King Francis.” Brantome, having given some instances of matrimonial discord between princes, adds this : “And lately King Henry d’Albret, with Queen Margaret of Valois, as I have it from good hands, who treated her very ill, and would have done still worse had it not been for King Francis, her brother, who spoke home and roughly to him, and charged him with threats to honour the queen his sister in regard to the rank she bore ” The whimsical behaviour of this King of Navarre on the occasion of the birth of his grandson, afterwards Henry IV. of France, may enable us to guess how far he was capable of tender¬ ness and delicacy of feeling in his conduct to his wife. On hearing that his daughter was pregnant, he recalled her from Picardy, where she was residing with her husband. The princess arrived in Pau on the 4th of December, after a journey of twenty days, and nine days afterwards her child was born. Her father had pro¬ mised that he would put his will into her hands as soon as she should be delivered, but on condition that in her labour she should sing a song : “To the end,” said he; “that you may not bring me a crying and ill-humoured child.” The princess promised that she would, and had so much courage and resolution that, in spite of the pains of labour, she sang, as she heard him enter her chamber, a Beamish ditty, the burden of which was, Noste Donne deon cap deoa pon , adjonda mi en aqueste houre —that is, “ Our Lady of the bridge-end, help me at this hour.” As soon as the child was born, his grandfather took him out of the midwife's hands, carried him into his cabinet, and there plentifully rubbed his lips and gums with garlic, by which horrible treatment the poor infant very narrowly escaped suffocation. The intense affection which Margaret bestowed on her brother he returned as fully as it was in his nature to do. His conduct towards her was marked by that imperious egotism of which he gave so many unfortunate proofs in the most important circum¬ stances of his life. He always called her ma mignonne , but he exacted unsparingly from “his darling” the surrender of her opinions, inclinations, and feelings to the claims of his policy or his caprice. He even took from her her only surviving child wbcii xxxiti Queen of Navarre . it was but two years old, and had it brought into the ch&teau of Plessis les Tours, where the poor mother saw it only at long intervals during her unfrequent journeys in France. But Margaret was never weary of making sacrifices for the brother she idolised ; and it is remarkable, not less as a characteristic of the age than of herself, that, notwithstanding the propriety of her personal conduct and her ardent piety, she was more than tolerant of the illicit amours to which her splendid brother openly addicted him¬ self. She composed the devices for the jewels‘which Francis I. presented to Madame de Chateaubriant; she maintained a most friendly intercourse with Madame d’Etampes, and to her she pre¬ sented her poem of Le Coche, or the Debat d’Amour, in which she pronounced a most pompous eulogy on the beauty and the virtues of that royal mistress. The death, in April, 1547, of that brother whom she had loved so much, and to whose glory and welfare she had devoted her existence, was a heavy blow to Margaret.* She survived him but two years, and that brief remnant of her life was spent chiefly in seclusion and religious abstraction from the concerns of the world. Nevertheless, it is not correctly stated by a recent English writer t that during that period “ no solicitations could induce the queen to emerge from her seclusion, or interest herself as formerly in literature or politics.” In the very next paragraph the same writer contradicts this loose assertion, by saying that Margaret “ often solaced her grief by composing elegies and plaintive songs on her misfortune.” Besides this, it is certain that the Queen of Navarre was occupied but a few months before her death in the composition of her book of tales ; for the 66th novel of her Heptameron recounts a ludicrous adventure which befel her daughter, Joanne d’Albret, and the Duke de Vendome, shortly after their marriage in October, 1548. Margaret’s health began to decline in the summer of the following year, and she expired at the chateau of Audos, in Bigorre, on the 21st of December, 1549, in her 57th year. * “ In his last sickness,” says Brant6me, " I have heard that she spoke to this purpose: ‘Should the courier who brings me news of the king my brother’s recovery, be he ever so tired, harassed, mud-bespattered, and dirty, I would embrace and kiss him as the finest prince and gentleman of France ; and should he want a bed, and not be able to find one to repose himself, I would give him mine, and gladly lie on the ground, for sake of the good news he brough*." ” + The Life of Marguerite d' Angouleme, Queen of Navarre, &c. By Martha Walker Freer, avols. London, 1854. KXX1V Memoir of Margaret , Amidst the multifarious occupations of her well-filled life, the Queen of Navarre found leisure to compose a great number of literary works, besides carrying on a voluminous correspondence with her brother, his ministers, and many other person. Her productions in verse, the greater part of which have been printed, consist of eight long poems on sacred, amorous, or historical subjects ; eight dramatic pieces, including four mysteries, two moralities, and two farces ; poetical epistles to her brother, her mother, and the King ot Navarre; and rondeaux, dixains songs, and other small pieces. According to the last editors of the Hep- tameron, some of Margaret’s fugitive pieces, published by them for the first time, are superior as literary works to her more serious compositions, and in them alone are to be found the gaiety and grace for which she has been so much celebrated by her contem¬ poraries. There is one among them of a graver character, which appears to us so remarkable for its impassioned force and its full and flowing rhythm that we gladly lay it before the reader :— Souvieigne vous des lermes respar.dues, Qui par regret tres grand furent rendues Sur vostre tant amyable visaige ; Souvieigne vous du dangereux oultraige Que vous cuida faire mon povre coeur, Press6 par trop d'une extreme douleur, Quand il forca la voix de satis faire Au tres grand maloii ne scavois que faire, Tant qua peu pres la pleur fut entendu; Souvieigne vous du sens qui fut per*du, Tant que raison, parolle & contenance N’eurent pouvoir, ny force, ny puissance, De desclairer ma double passion. Ny aussi peu ma grand affection ; Souvieigne vous du coeur qui bondissoit Pour la tristesse en quoy il perissoit ; Souvieigne vous des souspirs tr6s ardens Qui 4 la foule en despict de mes dents Sortoient dehors, pour mieulx me soulaiger; Souvieigne vous du peril & danger Ou nous estions, dont nous ne tenions compte. Car vraye amour ne congnoist paour ny home; Souvieigne vous de nostre amour honneste, Dont ne devons pour nul baisser la teste, Car nous scavons tous deux certainement Qu’honneur & Dieu en sont le fondement; Souvieigne vous du tr&s chaste ernbrasser Dont vous ne moy ne nous pouvions laisser Queett of Navarre . ran Souvieigne vous de vostre foy promise Par vostre main dedans la mienne mise; Souvieigne vous de mes doubtcs pass6e* Que vous avez en une heure effass^es, Prenant en vous si grande secured, Que je m'asseure en vostre fermete ; Souvieigne vous que vous avez remis Du plus parfaict de voz meilleurs amys Le coeur, l’esprit & le corps en repos, Par vostre honneste & vertueux propos, Auquel je veulx adjouster telle foy, Que plus n’aura doubte pouvoir sus moy ; Souvieigne vous que je n’ay plus de pain* Que ceste l& que avecques moy je maine ; C’est le regret de perdre vostre veue, Par qui souvent tant de joye ay receue ; Souvieigne vous du regard de vostre oeil, Dont I’esloingner me faict mourir de dueil J Souvieigne vous du lieu tres mal par£ Ou fust de moy trop de bien separ6 ; Souvieigne vous des heures qui sonnoyent, Et du regret qu’en sonnant me donnoient, Voyant le temps & l'heure s’advancer Du despartir ou ne fays qae penser ; Souvieigne vous de l'adieu redouble A chascun pas, de l'esperit trouble, Du coeur trancy & du corps affoibly, Et ne mectez le triste oeil en oubly ; Souvieigne vous de la parfaicte amour, Qui durera sans cesser nuyct & jour, Qui a dens moy si bien painct vostre ymaig^ Que je n'ay riens sinon vostre visaige, Vostre parler, vostre regard tant doulx Devant mes yeulx ; bref, je n'y ay que vot Vous suppliant, o amye estim^e, Plus que nulle aultre & de moy tant aymee* Souvieigne vous d’immortel souvenir De vostre amy, & le vueiltes tenir Dens vostre coeur seul amy & parfaict, Ainsi que vous dedens le sien il faict. On the whole, the Queen of N avarre has been far more success* fill in the poetical treatment of secular than of sacred subjects, and for obvious reasons. We cannot speak from personal knowledge of her efforts in the latter field, but we are very well disposed to accept the judgment pronounced upon them by the Bibliophiles Frangais, that they are barren of poetry, and brimful of tediousness, consist- nxxvi Memoir of Margarer, ing, as they do, of long paraphrases of Scripture, theological disser¬ tations, and metaphysico-devotional rhapsodies. One of them, how¬ ever, deserves more special mention, as marking the author’s dissent from the religion' of Rome. “ The mirror of the sinful soul ”(Miroir de fame pecheresse) “was composed in a strain very unusual in the Church of Rome, there being no mention made in it either of male or female saints, or of merits, or of any other purgatory than the blood of Jesus Christ.”* The work was consequently assailed with fierce denunciations from the orthodox pulpits. A comedy was acted by the students of the College of Navarre, in which the queen was represented as a Fury of Hell, and the Sorbonne decreed at least, if it did not promulgate, a censure upon her heretical pro¬ duction. Margaret complained to her brother, and the result was that Nicolas Cop, rector of the Sorbonne, expressly disowned the censure pronounced by the body over which he presided ; the stu¬ dent-comedians, and the most intemperate of the preachers, were committed to prison; and Noel Beda, syndic of the faculty oi theology, who had been the most ardent promoter of the attacks on the king’s sister, died in confinement at Mont Saint Michel. The Heptameron is, of all Margaret’s works, the one on which her literary reputation has mainly rested since her death. We have sketched its bibliographical history in our preface, and it now remains for us to speak of its composition. Dunlop, who may be considered as expressing the general opinion of literary historians, says that “ few of the tales composed in it are original ; for, except about half-a-dozen which are historically true, and are mentioned as having fallen under the knowledge and observation of the Queen of Navarre, they may all be traced to the Fabliaux, the Italian novels, and the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles.” On the contrary, the last editors of the Heptameron allege that “ its distinctive character is that it reproduces, under a tolerably transparent veil, real eve its which happened at the court of France, especially in the reigns of Louis XL, Charles VIII., Louis XII., and Francis I. Of the seventy-two tales which compose the Heptameron, we know but five or six which are evidently borrowed from the French conteurs of the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fi teenth centuries. This charac¬ ter of truth, which has not even been suspected by the majority of those who have spoken of this collection, may be demonstrated in the most evident manner.” This opinion very nearly agrees with the Queen of Navarre’s own statement in her prologue, that all the • Beza Hist. Ecclcsiast. book i. p. 5. xxxvii Queen of Navarre. tales she was about to relate were founded on fact, and it is cor¬ roborated by many evidences, direct and indirect. Brantome, for instance, tells us that “ his mother knew some secrets of the novels, and that she was one of the confabulators ” (une des devi- santes). He analyses many of the tales *in the Heptameron, certifies the authenticity of some of them, and makes known to us the real names of certain persons whom Margaret has introduced into them. From him we learn that, under the title of a Princess of Flanders, the Queen has portrayed herself, and related the audacious attempt made upon her chastity by Admiral de Bonnivet. Another notable verification of the Heptameron is supplied by the Bibliophiles Frangais. The first novel relates a murder committed by a proc¬ tor at Aiengon, and mentions that the murderer obtained letters of pardon from the King of France at the intercession of the King ot England. The Bibliophiles have discovered these very letters in the French archives, and found them to agree perfectly with the Queen of Navarre’s narrative. The more closely to imitate her Florentine model, she introduces her tales by describing a Remarkable accident of nature by which the supposed narrators are thrown together for a season and driven to seek for some device to while away the time. Certainly there is no comparison between the fine description of the plague at Florence, which opens the Decameron, and that multiplicity of little events which the Queen has accumulated in her prologue ; nevertheless, the contrivance of the latter is sufficiently ingenious, and bears a considerable resemblance to the frame of the Canterbury Tales. Ten French ladies and gentlemen, intercepted by a perilous inun¬ dation on their return from the baths of Cauterets, take shelter in a monastery of the Pyrenees, where they are forced to remain till a bridge should be thrown over an impassable stream, and amuse themselves meanwhile by relating stories in a beautiful meadow on the banks of the Gave. As to the persons into whose mouths Mar¬ garet has put her stories, it is natural enough to suppose that she chose them from her own family, and from among the lords and ladies who were usually about her. Madame Oisille, for instance, appears to be Margaret’s mother, that name being almost an ana¬ gram of Louise. She is represented as an aged widow of great experience, who is as a mother to the other ladies. The rest of the company call each other simply by their respective names, but in addressing Oisille they always say Madame. Many of the novels which turn on the debauchery and wickedness of the Franciscans or Cordeliers are related by Oisille. The tone in which she speaka cxxviii Memoir of Margaret , of them accords with the concluding passage of the journal of Louise of Savoy : u In the year 1522, in December, my son and I, by the grace of the Holy Ghost, began to know the hypocrites white, black, grey, smoky, and of all colours, from whom God in his infinite mercy and goodness preserve and defend us, for if Jesus Christ is not a liar, there is not among all mankind a more dangerous generation.” Hiican, another of the ten interlocutors, may very probably re¬ present one of Margaret's two husbands, out which of the two we are not prepared to say. The Bibliophiles infer that it is the Duke d’Alemjon, from the deference with which he is treated by the rest of the gentlemen ; but surely this would apply quite as well to the King of Navarre. In the prologue, Hircan says to Simontault, “ Since you have been the first to speak, it is right that you should take the lead y for in sport we are all equal;’ Hircan’s wife, Par- lamente, who was never idle or melancholy, is no doubt Margaret herself; and if Hircan is the Duke d’Alen^on, then Simontault is probably the King of Navarre, or nice vcrsd. With respect to the other six persons, the Bibliophiles Fran^ais offer no conjectures, oi only such as seem to us of little weight. The conversations in the Heptameron on the characters and in¬ cidents of the last related tale, and which generally introduce the subject of the new one, are much longer than in the Italian novels, and indeed occupy nearly one-half of the work. Some of the remarks are quaint and comical, others are remarkable for their naivete y while a few breathe the conceits of the Italian sonneteers ; for example, “ It is said that jealousy is love,but I deny it; for though jealousy be produced by love as ashes are by fire, yet jealousy ex¬ tinguishes love, as ashes smother the flame.” These epilogues are well worthy of attention, as embodying the author’s personal views on sundry important topics, such as friendship, love, and conjugal fidelity ; and also as a curious model of conversation among per¬ sons of quality in the first half of the sixteenth century. Especially curious is it to observe in them how stories and comments of a very ticklish character are mingled with reflections imbued with the most exalted piety; how the company prepare themselves by de¬ votional exercises for telling tales which are often anything but edifying ; and how, when the day’s work is done, they duly praise the Lord for giving them the grace to spend their time so pleasantly. Margaret’s contemporaries were by no means shocked at these in¬ congruities, as our more sceptical age would be. The causes of this difference would be an interesting subject of inquiry, but here xxxix Queen of Navarre. we can only note the fact. To give another instance of it : When Clement Marot published his poetical versions of some of the Psalms, they quickly superseded all other songs throughout the country. The press could not throw off copies fast enough to sup¬ ply the demand. Each of the princes and courtiers appropriated a psalm, and sang it to such a tune as he thought fit. Henry 11 . chose the psalm, Ainsi qu'on oyt le cerf braire, and made a hunting song of it. His mistress, Diane de Poitiers, jigged out Du fond de via pcnsee to the popular dance tune, Le branle de Poitou ; and Catherine de Medici, in allusion to her husband’s infidelities, pro¬ fanely appropriated Ne veuillez fas, 6 Sire , set to the air, Des boujfons. We have alluded to the questionable morality of the Heptameron, and certainly we will not endorse the argument of its new editors, who combat the common opinion that it should be classed among licentious books, upon the plea that “ the Queen of Navarre excels in winding up a tale of extreme gallantry with moral reflections of the most rigorous kind.” The best apology for the book is that its author has not exceeded the allowed licence of good society in her own age, and that she is not to be judged by the standard of ours. Free as her language must often appear to us, it will be found, upon closer scrutiny, to be always controlled by certain conventional rules of propriety. Some grossly obscene passages, for which she has incurred unmerited censure, prove now to have been the work of those manifold offenders, her first editors. INTRODUCTION. T the beginning of September, when the baths of the Pyrenees commenced to have effect, several persons from France, Spain, and other countries were assembled at those of Cauterets, some to drink the waters, others to bathe in them, or to be treated with mud ; remedies so marvellous, t^at the sick abandoned by physicians go home cured from Cauterets. My intention is not to declare either the situation or the virtue of the baths ; but only to relate what is pertinent to the matter I am about to describe. The patients remained at these baths until they found themselves sufficiently improved in hr? 1th ; but then, as they were preparing to return home, there te.. such excessive and extraordinary rains, that it seemed as though God had forgotten His promise to Noah, and was again about to destroy the world with water. The houses of Cauterets were so flooded that it was impossible to abide in them. Those who had come from Spain returned over the mountains the best way they could. But the French lords and ladies, thinking to return to Tarbes as easily as they came, foand the rivulets so swollen as to be scarcely fordable ; and when they arrived at the Bearnese Gave, which was not two feet deep when they crossed it on their way to the baths, they found it so swollen and so impetuous that they were forced to turn out of their direct course and look for bridges. These, however, being only of wood, had be£n carried away by the violence of the current. Some attempted to ford the stream by crossing it several together in one body; but they were swept away with such rapidity that the rest had no inclination to follow their example. They separated, therefore, either to look for another route or because they were not ot the same w r ay of thmking. Some crossed the mountains, and, passing through Aragon, arrived in the county of Roussillon, and i.om there to Narbonne. Others w T ent straight to Barcelona, and th- ace by sea to Marseilles or to Aigues-mortes. t The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. But a widow of long experience, named Oisille A jieterrmned to banish from her mind the fear of bad roads, and repair to Notre Dame de Serrance; not that she was so superstitious as to suppose that the glorious Virgin would quit her place at her son’s right hand to come and dwell in a desert land, but only because she wished to see the holy place, of which she had heard so much ; and also because she was assured that if there were any means of escaping from a danger, the monks were sure to find it out. She met with no end of difficulties; but at last she arrived, after having passed through places almost impracticable, and so difficult to climb and descend that, notwithstanding her age and her weight, she was compelled to perform the greater part of the journey on foot. But the most piteous thing was that most of her servants and horses died on the way, so that she arrived at Serranco attended by one man and one woman only. She was, however, charitably received by the monks. There were also among the French party two gentlemen, who had gone to the baths rather to accompany the ladies they loved than for any need they themselves had to use the waters. These gentlemen, seeing that the company was break¬ ing up, and that the husbands of their mistresses were taking them away, thought proper to follow them at a distance, without acquainting anyone with their purpose. The two married gentlemen and their wives arrived one evening at the house of a man who was more a bandit than a peasant. The two young gentlemen lodged at a cottage hard by, and hearing a great noise about midnight, they rose with their varlets, and inquired of their host what was all that tumult. The poor man, who was in a great fright, told them it was some robbers who were come to share the booty that was in the house of their comrade the bandit. The gentlemen instantly seized their arms, and hastened with their varlets to the aid of the ladies, holding it a far happier fate to die with them than to live without them. On reaching the bandit’s house, they found the first gate broken open, and the two gentlemen and their servants defending themselves valorously ; but as they were outnumbered by the bandits, and the married gentlemen were much wounded, they were beginning to give way, having already lost a great number of their servants. The two gentlemen, looking in at the windows, saw the two ladies weeping and crying so hard that their hearts swelled with pity and love, and falling on the bandits like two enraged bears from the mountains, they laid about them with such fury that a great number of the bandits fell, and the rest fled for safety to a place Introduction . j well known to them. The gentlemen having defeated these villains, the owner of the house being among the slain, and having learnt that the wife was still worse than himself, de¬ spatched her after him, with a sword thrust. They then entered a room on the basement, where they found one of the married gentlemen breathing his last. The other had not been hurt, only his clothes had been pierced and his sword broken ; and seeing the aid which the two had rendered him, he embraced and thanked them, and begged they would continue to stand by him, to which they assented with great good-will. After having seen the deceased buried, and consoled the wife as well as they could, they departed under the guidance of Providence, not knowing whither they were going. If you would know the names of the three gentlemen, that of the married one was Hircan, and his wife’s Parlamente. The widow’s name was Longarine. One of the young gentle¬ men was called Dagoucin, and the other Safifredent. They were in the saddle all day, and towards evening they descried a belfry, to which they made the best of their way, not with¬ out toil and trouble, and were humanely welcomed by the abbot and the monks. The abbey is called St. Savin’s. The abbot, who was of a very good house, lodged them honourably, and on the way to their lodgings begged them to acquaint him with their adventures. After they had recounted them, he told them they were not the only persons who had been un¬ fortunate, for there were in another room two ladies who had escaped as great a danger, or worse, inasmuch as they had encountered not men but beasts; for these poor ladies met a bear from the mountain half a league this side of Peyrchite, and fled from it with such speed that their horses dropped dead under them as they entered the abbey gates. Two of their women, who arrived long after them, reported that the bear had killed all their men-servants. The two ladies and the three gentlemen then went into the ladies’ chamber, where they found them in tears, and saw they were Nomerfide and Ennasuite. They all embraced, and after mutually recounting their adventures, they began to be comforted through the sage exhortations of the abbot, counting it a great consolation to have so happily met again ; and next day they heard mass with much devotion, and gave thanks to God for that he had delivered them out of such perils. Whilst they were all at mass, a man came running into the church in his shirt, and shouting for help, as if some one was 4 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. close at his heels. Hircan and the other gentlemen hastened to him to see what was the matter, and saw two men pursuing him, sword in hand. The latter would have fled upon seeing so many people, but Hircan and his party were too swift for them, and they lost their lives. On his return, Hircan dis¬ covered that the man in his shirt was one of their com¬ panions named Geburon. His story was that, being at a cottage near Peyrchite, he had been surprised in his bed by three men. Springing out in his shirt he had seized his sword, and mortally wounded one of them ; and whilst the two others were busy succouring their comrade, Geburon, seeing that the odds were two to one against him, and that he was naked whilst they wore armour, thought his safest course was to take to his heels, especially as his clothes would not impede his running. He too praised God for his deliver¬ ance, and he thanked those who had revenged him. After the company had heard mass and dined, they sent to see if it were possible to pass the Gave river, and were in consternation at hearing that the thing was impracticable, at which the abbot entreated them many times to remain with him until the waters had abated. This they agreed to for that day, and in the evening, when they were about to go to bed, there arrived an old monk who used to come regularly every September to our Lady of Serrance. Being asked news of his journey, stated that, in consequence of the flood, he had come by the mountains, and travelled over the worst roads he had ever seen in his life. He had beheld a very sad spectacle. A gentleman named Simontault, tired of waiting till the river should subside, had resolved to attempt the passage, relying on the goodness of his horse. He had made his domestics place themselves round him *o break the force of the current ; but when they reached the middle of the stream, the worst mounted were swept away and were seen no more. Thereupon the gentleman made again tor the bank he had quitted. His horse, good as it was, failed him at his need ; but by God’s will this happened so near the bank that the gentleman was able at last to scramble on all fours to the hard, not without having drunk a good deal of water, and so exhausted that he could hardly sustain himself. Happdy for him, a shepherd, leading back his sheep to the fields in the evening, found him seated on the stones, dripping wet, and deploring the loss of his people, who had perished before his eyes. The shepherd, who understood his need both from his Introduction. s Appearance and Tits words, took him by the hand and led him to his cabin, where he made a little fire, and dried him as well as he could. That same evening, Providence conducted to the cabin the old monk, who told him the way to Our Lady of Serrance, and assured him that he would be better lodged there than elsewhere, and that he would find there an aged widow named Oisille, who had met with an adventure as dis¬ tressing as his own. The company testified extreme joy at hearing the names of the good dame Oisille and the gentle knight Simontault; and everyone praised God for having saved the master and mistress after the loss of the servants. Parlamente especially gave hearty thanks to God, for she had long had a most affectionate servant in Simontault. They inquired carefully about the road to Serrance, and though the good oid man represented it to them as very difficult, nothing could stop them from setting out that very day, so well provided with all things necessary that nothing was left them to wish for. The abbot supplied them with the best horses in Lavedan, good Bearnese cloaks, wine, and plenty of victuals, and a good escort to conduct them in safety across the mountains. They traversed them more on foot than on horseback, and arrived at last, after many toils, at Our Lady of Serrance. Though the abbot was churlish enough, he durst not refuse to lodge them, for fear ot disobliging the lord of Bearn, by whom he knew they were held in consideration ; but, like a true hypocrite as he was, he showed them the best possible countenance, and took them to see the lady Oisille and the gentleman Simontault. All were equally delighted to find themselves so miraculously re¬ assembled, and the night was spent in praising God for the grace he had vouchsafed them. After taking a little rest, towards morning they went to hear mass, and receive the holy sacrament of union, by means of which all Christians are united as one, and to beg of God, who had reassembled them through his goodness, the grace to jcomplete their journey for his glory. After dinner they sent to know if the waters were fallen, but finding, on the contrary, that they were still higher, and that it would be a long time before they could pass safely, they resolved to have a bridge made, abutting on two rocks very near each other, and on which there still are planks used by people on foot, who, coming from Oleron, wish to pass the Gave. The abbot, very well pleased at their incurring an The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre : expense which would increase the number of pilgrims, fur¬ nished them with workmen ; but he was so miserly that he would not contribute a farthing of his own. The workmen, however, having declared that it would take at least ten or twelve days to construct the bridge, the company began to grow tired. Parlamente, the wife of Hircan, always active and never melancholy, having asked her husband’s permission to speak, said to old dame Oisille, “ I am surprised, madam, that you, who have so much experience that you fill the place of a mother to the rest of us women, do not devise some amuse¬ ment to mitigate the annoyance we shall suffer from so long a delay ; for unless we have something agreeable and virtuous to occupy us, we are in danger of falling sick.” “ What is still worse,” said Longarine, the young widow, “ we shall grow cross, which is an incurable malady ; the more so as there is not one of us but has cause to be extremely sad, considering our several losses.” “Everyone has not lost her husband like you,” said Enna- suite, laughing. “ To have lost servants is not a matter to break one’s heart, since they can easily be replaced. How¬ ever, I am decidedly of opinion that we should pass the time away as agreeably as we can.” Nomerfide, her companion, said it was a very good idea, and that if she passed one day without amusement, she should be dead the next. The gentlemen all warmly approved of the proposal, and begged dame Oisille to direct what was to be done. “ You ask a thing of me, my children,” replied the old lady, “which I find very difficult. You want me to invent an amuse¬ ment which shall dissipate your ennui. I have been in search of such a remedy all my life long, and I have never found but one, which is the reading of Holy Writ. It is in such reading that the mind finds its true and perfect joy, whence proceed the repose and the health of the body. If you ask me what I do to be so cheerful and so healthy at so advanced an age, it is that as soon as I rise I read the Holy Scriptures. I see and contemplate the will of God, who sent his Son on earth to announce to us that holy word and that good news which promises the pardon of all sins, and the payment of all debts, by the gift he has made us of his love, passion, and merits. This idea affords me such joy that I take my psalter, and sing with my heart and pronounce with my lips, as humbly as I can, the beautiful canticles with which the Holy Spirit inspired David and other sacred authors. The pleasure I derive from them is so ravishing that I regard as Introduction . I blessings the evils which befall me every day, because I have in my heart through faith Him who has suffered all these evils for me. Before supper, I retire in like manner to feed my soul with rfeading. In the evening I review all I have done in the day ; I ask pardon for my faults; I thank God for his graces, and lie down in his love, fear, and peace, assured against all evils. This, my children, is what has long been my amusement, after having searched well, and found none more solid and more satisfying. It seems to me. then, that if you will give yourselves every morning for an hour to reading, and say your prayers devoutly during mass, you will find in this solitude all the charms which cities could afford. In fact, he who kno.ws God finds all things fair in him, and without him everything ugly and disagreeable. Take my advice, therefore, I entreat you, if you wish to find happiness in life.” “Those who have read the Holy Scriptures,” said Hircan, “ as I believe we have done, will confess, madam, that what you have said is true. But you must also consider that we are not yet so mortified but that we have need of some amusement and zorporeal pastime. When we are at home we have the chase and lawking, which make us forget a thousand bad thoughts ; the ladies have their household affairs, their needlework, and some¬ times dancing, wherein they find laudable exercise. I propose, .hen, on the part of the men, that you, as the eldest lady, read to js in the morning the history of the life of our Lord Jesus Christ, and of the great and wondrous things he has done for us. After dinner until vespers we must choose some pastime which may be agreeable to the body and not prejudicial to the soul. By this means we shall pass the day cheerfully.” Dame Oisille replied that she had so much difficulty in for¬ getting vanities, that she was afraid she should succeed ill in the choice of such a pastime; also, that the matter should be referred to the majority of voices. “ And you, monsieur,” she said to Hircan, “shall give your opinion first.” “ If I thought,” replied Hircan, “that the diversion I should like to propose would be as agreeable to a certain lady in this company as to myself, my choice would be soon announced ; but as I am atraid this would not be the case, I have nothing to say, but will submit to the decision of the rest.” His wife Parlamente coloured up at these words, believing they were meant for her. “ Perhaps, Hircan,” she said, a little angrily and half-laughing, “the lady you think hardest to please could find means to content herself It she had a mind. 8 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre But let us say no more of the pastime in which only two car* take part, and think of one in which everybody can share.” “ Since my wife has so well comprehended my views,” observed Hircan to the other ladies, "and a private diversion is not to her taste, I believe she is the best person to invent an amusement which will give satisfaction to us all. I declare, therefor* beforehand, that I assent to her proposal.” The whole company spoke to the same effect, and Parlamente, seeing that she was appointed mistress of the sports, thus addressed the company: "Were I conscious of possessing as much capacity as the ancients who invented the arts, I would contrive an amusement which should fulfil the obligation you lay upon me; but as I know myself, and am aware that I find it difficult even to recollect the ingenious inventions of others, I shall think myself lucky if I can closely follow those who have already done what you desire. I believe there is not one of you but has read the novels of Boccaccio, recently translated into French, and which the most Christian King, Francis I. of that name, Mon¬ seigneur le Dauphin, Madame la Dauphine, and Madame Mar¬ guerite prized so highly, that if Boccaccio could hear them, the praises bestowed on him by those illustrious persons would surely raise him from the dead. I can certify that the two ladies I have named, and several other personages of the court, resolved to imitate Boccaccio, except in one thing—namely, in writing nothing but what was true. Monseigneur and the two ladies arranged at first that they would each write ten tales, and that they would assemble a party of ten persons, selecting for it those whom they thought most capable of telling a story with grace, and expressly excluding men of letters ; for Monseigneur did not wish that there should be any intrusion of art into the matter, and was afraid lest the flowers of rhetoric should be in some manner prejudicial to the truth of history. But the great affairs in which the king afterwards became involved, the peace con^- cluded between the sovereign and the King of England, the accouchement of Madame la Dauphine, and several other affairs of a nature to occupy the whole court, caused this project to be forgotten ; but as we have time to spare we will put it into execution whilst waiting for the completion of our bridge. If you think proper, we will go from noon till four o’clock into that fine meadow along the Gave river, where the trees form so thick a screen that the sun cannot pierce it, or incommode us with its heat. There, seated at our ease, we will each relate what we have seen or been told by persons worthy of belief. Introduction. 9 Ten days will suffice to make up the hundred. If it please God that our work prove worthy of being seen by the lords and ladies I have riamed, we will present it to them on our return, in lieu of images and paternosters, and I am convinced that such an offering will not be displeasing to them. At the same time, if anyone can suggest something more agreeable, I am ready to fall in with his ideas.” The whole company declared they could not imagine any¬ thing better, and everyone looked forward with impaiience for the morrow. As soon as the morning broke they all went to the chamber of Madame Oisille, whom they found already at prayers. She read to them for a good hour, after which they heard mass, and at ten o’clock they went to dinner. Everyone then retired4o his own chamber, and attended to what he had to do. At noon all were punctually assembled in the meadow, which was so beautiful and agreeable that it would need a Boccaccio to depict all its charms : enough for us to say that there never was its like. The company being seated on the green turf, so soft and delicate that no one had need of floor or carpet, “Which of us,” said Simontault, “shall have the command over the rest?” “Since you have been the first to speak,” said Hircan, “it is right you should have the command ; for in sport all are equals.” “ God knows,” replied Simontault, “ I could desire nothing better in the world than to command such a company.” Parlamente, whovknew very well what that meant, began to cough, so that Hircan did not perceive she had changed colour, and told Simontault to begin his tale, for all were ready to hear him. The same request being urged by the whole company, Simontault said, “ I have been so ill-requited for my long services, ladies, that to revenge myself on love and on the fair one who treats me with so much cruelty, I am about to make a collection of misdeeds done by women to men, in the whole of which 1 will relate nothing but the simple truth.” THE HEPTAMERON OF THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE. NOVEL I. h Woman of Alenfon having two lovers, one for her pleasure and the other fot her profit, caused that one of the two to be slain who was the first to disco>*er her gallantries—She obtained her pardon and that of her husband, who had fled the country, and who afterwards, in order to save some money, applied to a necromancer—The matter was found out and punished. N the lifetime of the last Duke Charles there was at Alengon a proctor named St. Aignan, who had mar¬ ried a gentlewoman of that country more handsome than.virtuous, who, for her beauty and her levity, was much courted by the Bishop of Sees. In order to accomplish his ends, this prelate took care to amuse the husband so well, that not only he took no notice of the doings of either of the pair, but even forgot the attachment he had always felt towards his masters. He passed from fidelity to perfidy, and finally went the length of practising sorceries to cause the death of the duchess. The prelate maintained a long correspondence with this unlucky woman, who intrigued with him rather from motives of interest than of love ; whereto she was also solicited by her husband. But she entertained such a passion for the son of the Lieutenant-General of Alengon, named Du Mesnil, that it half crazed her; and she often made the prelate give her husband some commission or another, that she m.ght see the lieutenant- general’s son at her ease. This affair lasted a long while, the prelate being entertained for her purse, and the other for her pleasure. She vowed to Du Mesnil that, if she received the I a The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. bishop well, it was only that she might be the more free to continue her caresses to himself; and that, whatever she did, the bishop got nothing but words, and he might be assured nobody but himself should ever have anything else of her. One day, when her husband had to wait upon the bishop, she asked leave of him to go to the country, alleging that the air of the city did not agree with her. No sooner had she arrived at his farm than she wrote to the lieutenant’s son, bidding him not fail to visit her about ten o’clock at night. The poor young man did so ; but on his arrival the servant woman who usually let him in, met him and said, “ Go elsewhere, my friend, for your place is filled.” Du Mesnil, thinking that the husband had returned, asked the servant how all was going on. Seeing before her a handsome, well-bred young man, the girl could not help pitying him to think how much he loved, and how little he was loved in return. With this feeling, she resolved to acquaint him with her mistress’s behaviour, believing that it would cure him of loving her so much. She told him that the Bishop of Sdes had but just entered the house, and was in bed with her mistress, who had not expected him till the following day ; but having detained the husband at his own residence, he had stolen away by night to visit her. The lieutenant’s son was thunder¬ struck at this disclosure, and could hardly bring himself to believe it. To clear up his doubts, he secreted himself in a neighbour¬ ing house, where he remained on sentry till three o’clock in the morning, when he saw the bishop come out, and recognized him perfectly in spite of his disguise. The young man returned in despair to Alenqon, where his wicked mistress arrived soon after. Never doubting but that she should dupe him as usual, she lost no time in coming to see him, but he told her that since she had touched sacred things she was too holy to ta.k to a sinner like him, but a sinner so repentant that he hoped his sin would soon be forgiven. When she found she was discovered, and that excuses and promises never to offend in that way again were of no avail, she went off and complained to her bishop. After long pondering over the matter, she told her husband that she could no longer reside in Alenqon because the lieutenant’s son, whom he thought so much his friend, was incessantly importuning her; and she begged that in order to prevent all suspicion he would take a house at Argentan. The husband, who allowed himself to be led by her, easily consented. They had been but a few days settled in Argentan, when this Newel i.] First Day. 13 JT wretched woman sent word to the lieutenant’s son that he was the most wicked of men, and that she was not ignorant that he publicly maligned her and the prelate, but that she would yet find means to make him repent of this. The young man, who had never spoken to anyone but herself, and who was afraid of involving himself in a quarrel with the prelate, mounted his horse and rode to Argentan, attended only by two of his servants. He found the lady at the Jacobins, where she was hearing ves¬ pers, and having placed himself on his knees beside her, “ I am come, Madam,” he said, “to protest to you before God that I have never complained of you to any but yourself. You have behaved so vilely to me that what I have said to you is not half what you deserve. But if any man or woman says that I have publicly spoken ill of you, I am here to contradict them in your presence.” The proctor’s wife, seeing that there were many people in the church, and that he was accompanied by two stout men, con¬ strained herself, and spoke Jo him as civilly as she could. She told him she did not doubt the truth of what he said ; that she believed him too upright to speak ill of anybody, and still less of her, who always loved him ; but as something had come to her husband’s ears, she begged he would say before him that he had never spoken as had been said, and that he did not believe a word of such tales. To this he readily consented, and took her by the arm to conduct her home ; but she begged him not to do so, lest her husband should suppose that she had schooled him as to what he should say. Then taking one of his servants by the sleeve, she said, “ Let this man come with me, and when it is time he shall bring you word. Meanwhile, you may remain quietly in your lodging.” He, never dreaming of a conspiracy against him, made no objection to what she proposed. She gave the servant she took home with her his supper, and when the man frequently asked her when would it be time to go for his master, she always replied that he would come soon enough. At night she privily sent off one of her own domestics to fetch Du Mesnil, who, having no suspicion, accompanied the man tc St. Aignan’s house, having with him only one of his servants, the other being with the mistress of the house. As he entered the door, his guide told him his mistress would be glad to say a few words to him before he spoke to her husband ; that she was Waiting for him in a room with only one of his servants, and hat he had better sen 1 away the other by the front door. Ibis 14 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre, he accordingly did ; and as he was going up a narrow and very dark flight of stairs, the proctor, who had set men in ambush, hearing a voice, called out to know what it was. Some one replied it was a man who was making his way secretly into the house. Upon this, one Thomas Guerin, an assassin by pro¬ fession, and hired by the proctor for the occasion, fell upon the poor young man, and gave him so many sword-wounds that at last he fell dead. Meanwhile, his servant, who was with the lady, said to her, “ I hear my master’s voice on the stairs. I will go to him.” But she stopped him, saying, “Don’t trouble yourself; he will come soon enough.” Soon afterwards, hearing his master cry out, “ I am a dead man ! My God have mercy on me ! ” he wanted to go to his aid, but again she stopped him. “ Be quiet,” she said ; “ my husband is chastising him for his pranks. Let’s go see.” Leaning over the stairhead, she called out to her husband, “Well! is it done?” “Come and see,” replied the husband; “you are avenged on him who put you to such shame.” And so saying, he struck his dagger ten or twelve times into the stomach of a man whom when living he dare not have assailed. After the deed was done, and the two servants of the mur¬ dered man had fled with the sad tidings to his poor father, St. Aignan began to consider what steps he should next take. The servants of the murdered man could not be admitted to give evidence, and no one else had seen the deed besides the mur¬ derers, an old woman-servant, and a girl of fifteen. He en¬ deavoured to secure the old woman ; but she found means of escape, and took refuge in the Jacobins. Her testimony was the best that was had respecting this crime. The young chambermaid remained some days in St. Aignan’s house ; but contriving to have her suborned by one of the assassins, he had her taken to Paris, and placed in a house of ill-fame, in order to hinder her from being believed as a witness. That nothing else might remain to prove his guilt, he burned the body ; and the bones which the fire could not consume he had mixed with mortar, for he was then building. All this being done, he sent to the court to sue for his pardon, and set forth that having as¬ certained that the deceased was endeavouring to dishonour his wife, he had often forbid him his house ; that he had come not¬ withstanding by night, under suspicious circumstances, to speak with her, and that having found him at the door of his wife's chamber, he had killed him more in the heat of anger than de¬ liberately. But in spite of his haste, before he had despatched his Noiel i.] . First Day . 15 letter, the duke and duchess learned the whole truth, which they had from the father of the unfortunate youngs man, and made it known to the chancellor in order to hinder St. Aignan from obtaining his^pardon. Seeing this, the wretch fled to England with his wife and several of her relations. Before his depar¬ ture, he told the assassin he had employed that he had express orders from the king to arrest him and have him put to death ; but that, in consideration of the service he had rendered him, he would save his life. He gave him ten crowns to quit the realm, and the man has never been heard of since. The murder, how¬ ever, was so well verified by the servants of the deceased, by the old woman who had fled to the Jacobins, and by the bones which were found in the mortar, that the criminal process was* completed in the absence of St. Aignan and his wife, who were condemned to death as contumacious, to pay their victim’s father fifteen hundred crowns for the cost of the pro¬ cess, and to have the rest of their property confiscated to the sovereign. > St. Aignan being in England, and finding himself condemned to death in France, so managed by his services to gain the goodwill of several great lords, and set his wife’s relations to work to such purpose, that the King of England entreated the King of France to pardon him and to restore him to his posses¬ sions and his honours. The king having been informed of the atrocity of this affair, sent the details of the process to the King of England, and begged him to consider if the crime was one which could be pardoned ; adding, that throughout his realm none but the Duke of Alenqon alone had the privilege of granting grace in his duchy. The King of England did not yield to these representations, but so urgently solicited St. Aignan’s pardon that at last he obtained it. On his return home, to fill up the measure of his wickedness, the proctor made acquaintance with a sorcerer named Gallery, hoping to be put by him in a way to escape payment of the fifteen hundred crowns due by him to his victim’s father. To this end, he and his wife went in disguise to Paris ; but the wife, seeing how he often shut himself up for a long time with Gallery without saying a word to her, watched them one morning, and saw Gallery set before her husband five wooden images, three of which had their hands hanging down, and two had them raised. " We must have waxen images made like them,” said Gallery to St. Aignan ; “ those which shall have their arms hanging down will be for the persons we shall cause to die; and 16 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre . hose with raised arms will be for the persons whose goodwill we seek.” “Very well,” said the proctor. “This one, then, shall be for the king, by whom I would be favoured, and this one for Monsieur Brinon, Chancellor of Alenqon.” “ The images,” said Gallery, “ must be put under the altar, where they will hear mass, with certain words which I will teach you at the proper time.” The proctor coming then to the images with pendent arms said that one was for Maitre Gilles du Mesnil, father of the de ceased for he knew well that, as long as the old man lived, he would not cease to pursue the murderer of h-is son. One of the female figures with pendent arms was for my lady the Duchess of Alencon, the king’s sister, because she was so fond of her old servant Du Mesnil, and had on so many occasions known the wickedness of the proctor, that unless she died he could not live. The second female figure of the same sort was for his wife, who, he said, was the cause of all his misfortunes, and who, he well knew, would never amend. His wife, who was peeping through the keyhole, and found herself on the list of victims, thought it high time to anticipate him. She had ar. uncle, named Neaufle, who was referendary to the Duke ol Alencon, and going to him under t^e pretence of borrowing money, she related to him all she had seen and heard. The uncle, a good old servant of the duke's, went to the Chancellor of Alencon, and communicated to him what he had learnt from his niece. As the duke and duchess were not that day at court, the chancellor waited on Madame la Rdgente, the mother of the king and the duchess, who, as soon as she was informed of the matter, set La Barre, the Provost of Paris, to work at once. 'I he proiost did his duty so promptly and so well, that the proctor and the necromancer were both arrested. Neither torture nor constraint was required to make them avow their guilt, and, on thrir own confession, judgment was completed and laid before the king. Some persons, who wished to save the lives of the culprits, represented to the king that they had no other intention in performing their enchantments than to secure his good graces ; but the king, to whom his sister’s life was as dear as his own, commanded that they should be sentenced just as though they had been guilty against his own person. His sister, the Duchess of Alencon, nevertheless entreated the king to spare the proctor’s life, and condemn him to a severe cor¬ poral puni-shment. Her request was granted, and St. Aignan and \ Nivel i.J First Bay . sf Galler)- were sent to Saint Blancart’s galleys at Marseilles, where they ended their days, and had leisure to reflect on the atrocity of their crimes. The proctor’s wicked wife, after the loss of her husband, conducted herself worse than ever, and died miserably.* /Consider, ladies, I beseech you, what disorders a wiCKed woman occasions, and how many evils ensue from the sin of the one you have just heard of. Since Eve made Adam sin, it has been the business of woman to torment, kill, and damn men. For my part, I have had so much experience of their cruelty, that I shall lay my death to nothing but the despair into which one of them has plunged me. And yet I am crazed enough to confess this hell is more agreeable to me, coming from her hand, than the paradise which another might bestow upon me. Parlamente, affecting not to understand that it was of herself he spoke, replied, “ If hell is as agreeable as you say, you can’t be afraid of the devil who put you into it.” “ If my devil,’’ replied Simontault in a pet, “ were to become as black as it has been cruel to me, it would cause this company as much fright as I feel pleasure in looking upon it. But the tire of love makes me forget the fire of that hell. So I will say no more about it, but call upon Madame Oisille, being assured that if she would speak of women as she knows them, she would corroborate my opinion.” The whole company turned to the old lady and begged her to begin, which $he did with a smile, and with this little preamble: “ it seems to me, ladies, that the last speaker has cast such a slur upon our sex by the true story he has narrated of a wretched woman, that I must run back through all the past years of my life in order to call to my mind one woman whose virtue was such as to belie the bad opinion he has of our sex. Happily I recol¬ lect one such woman, who deserves not to be forgotten, and will now relate her story to you.” * The events related in this novel, and the names of the persons, are all real. The last editors of the Heptameron (la Soci£t£ des Bibliophiles Fran^ais, 1853) have published the writ of pardon granted by Francis I. to St. Aignan, the original of which is preserved in the Archives Nationales. The writ, as usual, recites the statement of the case made by the petitioner for pardon, and this agrees closely with the Queen of Navarre's narrative, allowance, of course, being m ide for the peculiar colouring which it was the murderer’s interest to give to the facts. C i8 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre\ NOVEL II. Chaste and lamentable death of the wife of one of the Queen cxf Navarre'i muleteers. T Amboise there once lived a muleteer, who was in the service of the Queen of Navarre, sister of Francis I. This princess being at Bois, where she was delivered of a son, the muleteer went thither to receive his quarterly pay¬ ment, and left his wife at Amboise, where they lived, in a house beyond the bridges. There lived with them for a long time one of the muleteer’s men, who had felt such a passion for her that at last he could not help declaring it ; but she, being a virtuous woman, reproved him so sharply, threatening to have him beaten and dismissed by her husband, that he never afterwards durst address her with such language. Nevertheless, the fire of his love, though smothered, was not extinguished. His master then being at Blois, and his mistress at vespers at St. Florentin, which is the church of the castle, very remote from the muleteer’s house, in which he was left alone, he resolved to have by force what he could not obtain either by prayers or services. To this end he broke an opening through the boarded partition between his mistress’s chamber and that in which he himself slept. This was not perceived, being covered by the curtains of the master’s bed on one side, and by those of the men’s bed on the other. When the poor woman had gone to bed with a little girl of twelve years old, and was sleeping soundly, as one usually does in the first sleep, the man entered the room through the opening, in his shirt, with his sword in his hand, and got into the bed with her. The moment she felt him she sprang out of bed, and addressed such remonstrances to him as would occur to any woman of honour in the like case. He, whose love was but brutality, and who would better have understood the language of his mules than such virtuous pleadings, appeared more insensible to reason than the brutes with which he had long associated. Seeing that she ran so fast round a table that he could not catch her, and that, although he had twice laid hands on her, she had strength enough both times to break from his grasp, he despaired of ever taking her alive, and stabbed her in the loins, to see if pain would make hei yield what fear and force had failed to extort from her. But it was quite the reverse; for as a brave soldier when he sec« Novel 2.] First Day. 19 his own blood is the hotter to revenge himself on his enemies and acquire honour, so, her chaste heart gathering new strength, she ran faster than ever, to escape falling into the hands of tMit wretch, at the same time remonstrating with him in the best way she could, thinking by that means to make him conscious of his fault. But he was in such a frenzy that he was incapable of profiting by good advice. In spite of the speed with which she ran as long as her strength lasted, she received several more wounds, till at length, weakened by loss of blood, and feeling the approach of death, she raised her eyes and her clasped hands to heaven, and gave thanks to God, whom she called her strength, her virtue, her patience, and her chastity, beseeching him to accept the blood which, according to his commandment, was shed through respect for that of his son, wherein she was thoroughly assured that all sins are washed out, and effaced from the memory of his wrath. Then exclaim¬ ing “ Lord, receive my soul which thy goodness has redeemed,” she fell on her face, and received several more wounds from the villain, who, after she had lost the power of speech and motion, satisfied his lust, and fled with such speed that, in spite of all efforts to track him, he was never heard of afterwards. The little girl who had been in bed with the poor woman had hid herself beneath it in her fright; but as soon as she saw that the man was gone, she went to her mistress, and finding her speechless and motionless, she called out through the window to the neighbours for help. Esteeming and liking the muleteer’s 'wife as much as any woman in the town, they all huiried at once to her aid, and brought with them surgeons, who found that she had received twenty-five mortal wounds. They did all they could for her, but she was past saving. She lingered, how¬ ever, for an hour, making signs with her eyes and hands, and showing thereby that she had not lost consciousness. A priest having asked her in what faith she died, she replied, by signs as unequivocal as speech, that she put her trust in the death of Jesus Christ, whom she hoped to see in his heavenly glory. And so, with a serene countenance and eyes uplifted to heaven, she surrendered her chaste body to the earth, and her soul to her Creator. Her husband arrived just as they were about to carry hei to the grave, and was shocked to see his wife dead before he had heard any news of her ; but double cause he had to grieve when he was told how she had died ; and so poignant was his sorrow that it had like to cost him his life. The rnariyr lo The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre . of chastity was buried in the church of St. Florentin, being attended to the grave by all the virtuous women of the place, who did all possible honour to her memory, deeming it a happiness to be the townswomen of one so virtuous. Those, too, who had led bad lives, seeing the honours paid to the deceased, amended their ways, and resolved to live better for the time to come.* There, ladies, you have a true tale, and one which may well incite to chastity, which is so fine a virtue. Ought we not to die of shame, we who are of good birth, to feel our hearts full of the love of the world, since, to avoid it, a poor muleteer’s wife did not fear so cruel a death ? Therefore we must humble ourselves, for God does not bestow his graces on men because they are noble or rich ; but, according as it pleases his goodness, which regards not the appearance of persons, He chooses whom He will. He honours with his virtues, and finally crowns with his glory, those whom He has elected ; and often He chooses low and despised things to confound those which the world esteems high and honourable. Let us not rejoice in our virtues, as Jesus Christ says, but let us rejoice for that we are enrolled in the Book of Life. The ladies were so touched by the sad and glorious death of the muleteer’s wife, that there was not one of them but shed tears, and promised herself that she would strive to follow such an example should fortune expose her to a similar trial. At last, Madame Oisille, seeing they were losing time in praising the dead woman, said to Saffredent, “ If you do not say something to make the company laugh, no one will forgive me for the fault I have committed in making them weep.” Saffredent, who was really desirous to say something good and agreeable to the company, and especially to one of the ladies, repbed that this honour was not due to him, and that there were others who were older and more capable than himself who ought to sptak before him. “ But since you will have it so,” he said, “the best thing I can do is to despatch the matter at once, for the more good speakers pre¬ cede me, the more difficult will my task be when my turn comes." * The tragedy here related is thought to have occurred after August, 1530, when Margaret was delivered of a son named Jean, who lived only two months. Navel 3 .] 21 First Day . NOVEL III. A. King of Naples, having debauched the wife of a gentleman, at last wear* 1 horns himself. S I have often wished I had shared the good for- tune of one about whom I am going to tell you a tale, I must intorm you that in the time of King Alfonso, the sceptre of whose realm was lascivious¬ ness, there was at Naples a handsome, agreeable gentleman, ii: whom nature and education had combined so many per¬ fections, that an old gentleman gave him his daughter, who for beauty and engaging qualities was in no respects inferior to her husband. Great was their mutual love during the first months of their marriage ; but the carnival being come, and the king going masked into the houses, where everyone did his best to receive him well, he cane to this gentleman’s, where he met with a better reception than anywhere else. Confections, music, con¬ certs, and other amusements were not forgotten ; but what pleased the king most was the wife, the finest woman, to his thinking, he had ever seen. After the repast she sang with her husband, and that so pleasingly that she seemed still more beautiful. The king, seeing so many perfections in one person, took much less pleasure in the sweet harmony of the husband and wife than in thinking how he might break it. Their mutual affection appeared to him a great obstacle to his design ; there¬ fore he concealed his passion as well as he could ; but to solace it in some manner he frequently entertained the lords and ladies of Naples, and did not forget the husband and his wife. As one readily believes what one desires, the king thought that the lady’s eyes promised him something agreeable, if only those of the husband were not in the way. To put his conjec¬ ture to the proof, he sent the husband to Rome with a commis¬ sion which would occupy him a fortnight or three weeks. When he was gone, his wife, who never before had lost sight of him, »o to speak, was in the deepest affliction. The king went to see her frequently, and did his best to console her by obliging words and presents. In a word, he played his part so well that she was not only consoled, but even very well pleased with her hus¬ band’s absence. Brfore the end of three weeks she was so much in love with the king that she was quite as distressed at her husband’s return as she had been at his departure. That she might not be deprived of the king’s presence, it was settled between them that whenever the husband went to the country 22 The Heptamero?i of the Queen of Navarre. she should give notice to the king, who then might come to see her in perfect security, and so secretly that her honour, which she respected more than her conscience, should not be hurt; a hope which the fair lady d\velt on with great pleasure. The husband, on his return, was so well received by his wife, that even had he been told that the king fondled her during his absence, he never could have believed it. But in course of time this tire, which such pains were taken to conceal, began gradually to make itself visible, and became at last so glaring that the hus¬ band, justly alarmed, set him to observe, and with such effect that he had scarcely any room left for doubt. But as he was afraid that he who wronged him would do him a still worse mis¬ chief if he made any noise about the matter, he resolved to dis¬ semble, thinking it better to live with grief at his heart, than to expose his life for a woman who did not love him. Nevertheless, he longed, in the bitterness of his resentment, to retaliate on the king, if it were possible ; and as he knew that spite will make a woman do more than love, especially such as are of a great and honourable spirit, he took the liberty cne day to say to the queen how grieved he was that the king her husband treated her with indifference. The queen, who had heard of the king’s amour with his wife, replied that she could not have honour and plea¬ sure both together. “ I know well,” she added, “ that I have the honour whereof another receives the pleasure ; but then she who has the pleasure has not the same honour as is mine.” Well knowing to whom these words applied, the gentleman re¬ sponded, “ Honour is born with you, madam. You are of so good a lineage that the rank of queen or empress could add nothing to your nobility ; but your beauty, your graces, and your winning deportment merit so much pleasure, that she who robs you of that which is your due does more harm to herself than to you, since for a glory which turns to shame she loses as much pleasure as you or any woman in the kingdom could enjoy. And 1 can tell you, madam, that the king, the crown apart, is not more capable than I of contenting a woman. Far from it, I am certain that to satisfy a woman of your merit the king ought to wish that he was of my temperament.” “ Though the king is of a more delicate complexion than you,” replied the queen, laughing, “the love he has for me gratifies me so much that 1 prefer it to any other thing.” “ If that be so, madam,” returned the gentleman, “ I no longer pity you. I know that if the king had for you a love as pure as that you have for him, you would literally enjoy the gratifi- Novel 3.] First Day. 23 cation yoja speak of; but God has determined that it should be otherwise, in order that, not finding in him what you desire, you should not make him your god on earth.” “ I own to you,” said the queen, “that the love I have for him is so great that no heart can love with such passion as mine.” “ Allow me, if you please, to tell you, madam, that you have not fathomed the love in every heart. I dare assure you, madam, that there is one who loves you with a love so perfect and impassioned that what you feel for the king cannot be compared with it. His love grows stronger as that of the king grows weaker, and it only rests with yourself, madam, if you think proper, to be more than compensated for all you lose.” By this time the queen began to perceive, both from the gen¬ tleman’s words and his manner, that his tongue was the inter¬ preter of his heart. She now recollected that for a long time past he had been seeking opportunities to do her service, and seeking them with such eagerness that he had become quite melancholy. At first she had supposed that his wife was the cause of his sad¬ ness ; but now she made no doubt that it was all on her own ac¬ count. As love never fails to make itself felt when it is real, the queen had no difficulty in unriddling what was a secret for every¬ one else. The gentleman, therefore, appearing to her more amiable than her husband, considering, besides, that he was for¬ saken by his wife, as she was by her husband, and animated with resentment and jealousy against her husband, “ My God ! ” she exclaimed with a sigh, and with tears in her eyes, “must it be that vengeance shall effect upon me what love has never been able to effect ?” “ Vengeance is sweet, madam,” observed the now hopeful suitor, “ when, instead of killing one’s enemy, one bestows life on a real friend. It is high time, methinks, that the truth should cure you of an unreasonable love you entertain for a person who has none for you ; and that a just and well-founded love should expel the fear which is very ill-lodged in a heart so great and so virtuous as yours. Let us put out of consideration, madam, your royal quality, and let us contemplate the fact that you and I, of all persons in the world, are the two who are most basely duped and betrayed by those whom we have most perfectly loved. Let us avenge ourselves, madam, not so much for the sake of retalia¬ tion as for the satisfaction of love, which on my side is such that I could not bear more and live. If your heart is not harder than adamant, you must feel some spark of that fire which augments in proportion as I labour to conceal it, and if pity for me, who am 2 4 The Hepiajjicron of the Queen of Navarre . dying of love for you, does not incite you to love me, at least you should do so out of resentment. Your merit is so great that it is worthy of the love of every honest heart ; yet you are despised and abandoned by him for whom you have abandoned all others.” These words caused the queen such violent transports that, in order to conceal the commotion of her spirits, she took the gen¬ tleman’s arm, and went with him into a garden adjoining her chamber, where she walked up and down a long while without being able to speak a single word to him. But the gentleman, seeing her half-conquered, no sooner reached the end of an alley where no one could see them, than he plied her to good purpose with his long-concealed passion. Being both of one mind, they revenged themselves together ; and it was arranged between them that whenever the king went to visit the gentleman’s wife, the gentleman should visit the queen. Thus, the cheaters being cheated, four would share the pleasure which two imagined they had all to themselves. When all was over, the queen retired to her chamber, and the gentleman went home, both of them so well contented that they thought no more of their past vexations. The gentleman, far from dreading lest the king should visit his wife, on the contrary desired nothing better ; and to afford him opportunity for doing so, he went to the country oftener than he had been used. When the king knew that the gentleman was at his village, which was but half a league from the city, he went at once to the fair lady; whilst the gentleman repaired by night to the queen’s chamber, where he did duty as the king’s lieutenant so secretly that no one perceived it. Things went on in this way for a long while ; but whatever pains the king took to conceal his amour, all the world was aware of it. The gentleman was much pitied by all good-natured people, and ridiculed by the ill-natured, who used to make horns at him behind his back. He knewvery well that they did so, and he laughed in his sleeve, for he thought his horns were as good as the king’s crown. One day, when the royal gallant was at the gentleman’s, casting his eyes on a pair of antlers hung up in the hall, he could not help saying, with a laugh, in the presence of the master of the house himself, “These antlers very well become this place.” The gentleman, who had as much spirit as the king, had this in¬ scription put up beneath the antlers after the king was gone : Io porto le corna, ciascun lo vede ; Ma tal le porta, chi no lo crede. I wear the horns as'all men know ; He wears them too who thinks not so. Kovel 3 ^] first Day. 25 On his next visit the king observed this inscription, and asked the meaning of it. “ If the stag,” replied the gentleman, “does not know the king’s secret, it is not just that the king should know the stag’s secret. Be satisfied with knowing, sire, that it is not everyone who wears horns who has his cap lifted off by them; some horns are so soft that a man may wear them without knowing it.” It was plain to the king from this reply that the gentleman knew something of his own affair, but he never suspected either him or the queen. That princess played her part extremely well ; for the more pleased she was with her husband’s conduct, the more she pretended to be dissatisfied. So they lived as good friends on both sides until old age put an end to their mutual pleasures. This, ladies, is a story which I have great pleasure in proposing to you by way of example, to the end that when your husbands give you horns you may do the same by them. 1 * “ 1 air.vei) well assured, Saffredent,” said Ennasuite, laughing, “that if you were as much in love as you have formerly been, you would endure horns as big as oaks for the sake of brstowing a pair as you pleased ; but now that your hair is beginning to turn grey, it is time to put a truce to your desires.” “ Though she whom I love, mademoiselle, allows me no hope,” replied Saffredent, “and age has exhausted my vigour, my desires remain still in full force. But since you reproach me with so seemly a passion, you will, if you please, relate to us the fourth novel ; and we shall see if you can find some example which may refute me.” - One of the ladies present, who knew that she who had taken Saffredent’s words to herself was not the person he loved so much as to be willing to wear horns of her making, could not help laughing at the manner in which she had taken them up. Saffre¬ dent, who perceived that the laughing lady had guessed right, was very glad of it, and let Ennasuite talk on. “To prove, ladies,” she said, “ to Saffredent and all the company that all women are not like the queen of whom he has told us, and that * The king who figures in this novel, it is thought, is Alfonso V., King of Aragon and Sicily, who supplanted King Ren£ on the throne of Naples in 1443, and remained in possession of it until his death in 1458. He married, in 1415, Maria, daughter of Henry III., King of Castile, and lived on very bad erms with that princess, who, according to the authors of /*Art de verifier les Dates, never set foot in Italy. Queen Mary, who was married in 1415. must have been long past her bloom in 1443. For this reason the Bibliophiles Fran- £ais are inclined to believe that the Queen of Navarre has here related, under borrowed names, a true story of her own times. 2 6 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. the audacious are not always successful, I will relate to you the adventure of a lady who deemed that the vexation of falling- in love was harder to bear than death itself. I shall not name the persons, because the story is so recent that I should be afraid of offending some of the near relations if I did so.” NOVEL IV. Presumptuous attempt of a gentleman upon a Princess of Flanders, and the shame it brought upon him. HERE was in Flanders a lady of such family that there was none better in the country. She was a widow, had been twice married, but had no children living. During her second widowhood she resided with her brother, who loved her much, and who was a very great lord, being married to one of the king’s daughters. This young prince was much addicted to pleasure, and was fond of the chase, amusements, and the ladies, as usual with young people. He had a very ill-tem¬ pered wife, who was by no means well pleased with her husband’s diversions ; wherefore, as his sister was the most lively and cheerful companion possible, she accompanied the prince to every place to which he took his wife. There was at the prince’s court a gentleman who surpassed all the others in height, figure, and good looks, and who, seeing that his master’s sister was a lively lady, and fond of laughing, thought he would try if a well-bred lover would be to her taste. But the result was quite contrary to what he had expected ; although she pardoned his audacity in consideration of his good looks and good breeding, and even let him know that she was not angry that he had spoken to her, only she desired that she might never hear the same language from him again. He promised this, that he might not lose the honour and pleasure of her society, but as his passion increased with time, he forgot his promise. He did not, however, have recourse to words, for experience had taught him that she knew how to make chaste replies ; but he flattered himself that being a widow, young, vigorous, and good-humoured, she would, perhaps, take pity on him and on herself if he could find her in a convenient place. To this end he acquainted the prince that he had a house ad¬ mirably situated for the chase, and that if he would come thither and hunt three or four stags in the month of May, he would have excellent sport. The prince promised he would do so, and he kept his word. He found a handsome house prepared for his reception, f Novell First Day. 27 in the best order, as belonging to the richest nobleman in the country. Its owner lodged her whom he loved better than him¬ self in an apartment opposite to that which he assigned to the prince and princess. Her bedroom was so well tapestried above, and so well matted below, that it was impossible to perceive a trap-door he had contrived in the alcove, and which led down into the room occupied by his aged and infirm mother. As the good old lady coughed a great deal, and was afraid of disturbing the princess, she exchanged bedrooms with her son. Not an evening passed that the old lady did not carry confections to the princess, on which occasions her son failed not to accompany her ; and as he was much liked by the brother, he was allowed to be present at the sister’s coucher and lever , when he always found cause for the increase of his passion. (Jne night he stayed so late with the princess that, seeing she was falling asleep, he was obliged to leave her and return to his own chamber. He took the handsomest and best perfumed shirt he bad, and a nightcap of the choicest kind ; then, looking at himself in the glass, he was so satisfied with his own appear¬ ance that he thought no lady could possibly withstand his good looks. Promising himself marvels therefore from his enterprise, lie lay down on his bed, where he did not think he should stay long, for he expected to exchange it for one more honourable. No sooner had he dismissed his attendants than he rose and locked the door, and listened for a long time to hear whether there was any noise in the princess’s chamber, which, as already said, was above his own. When he had satisfied himself that all was quiet, he began to put his fine project in execution, and gradually let down the trap-door, which was so well made and so well covered with cloth that it did not make the least noise. Then stealing up into the alcove where the princess was fast asleep, he got into bed to her without ceremony, regardless of her high birth and the obligations he was under to her, and without having in the first instance obtained her consent. The first intimation she had of his arrival was to find herself in his arms ; but being a strong woman she broke loose from his grasp, and, demanding who he was, made such good use of her hands and nails that he tried to stuff the quilt into her mouth for fear she should cry out. But he never could accomplish his purpose, for as she found that he was doing his best to dishonour her, she did her best to defend herself, and called out to her lady of honour, an aged and very prudent woman, who slept in the same room, and she hastened in her shift to her mistress’s aid. 28 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. The gentleman, finding he was discovered, was so much afraid of being recognized that he hurried away through his trap-door as fast as he could, no less overcome at the plight in which he returned from his enterprise than he had been keen-set and con¬ fident when he entered upon it. The candle was still burning on the table before his mirror, which showed his face all scratched and bitten, and the blood streaming from it over his fine shirt. “Thou are rightly served, pernicious beauty!” he said, apostrophising his own lacerated visage. “ Thy vain promises set upon an impossible enterprise, and one which, far from increasing my good fortune, will, perhaps, bring upon me a world of trouble. What will become of me if she knows that I have committed this folly in violation of my promise ? The least that can happen to me w 11 be to be banished from her presence. Why did I employ fraud to steal what my birth and my good looks might have obtained for me by lawful ways? Could I expect to make myself master of her heart by violence ? Ought I not to have waited till love put me in possession of it in recom¬ pense for my patience and my long service ? For without love all the merits and power of man are nothing.” The rest of the night was spent by the discomfited gallant in such reflections as these, mingled with tears, groans, and wail¬ ings indescribable. In the morning he feigned illness, to con¬ ceal the mangled state of his countenance, pretending all the while the company remained in the house that he could not endure the light. The lady, who was convinced that there was no one at the court capable of so audacious an act except the man who had the boldness to declare his love to her, searched the chamber with the lady of honour ; but not finding a passage through which anyone could have entered, she broke into a towering passion. “ Be assured,” she said to the lady of honour, “ that the lord of this mansion is the man, and that I will make such a report to-morrow morning to my brother that the culprit’s head shall bear witness to my chastity.” “ I am delighted, madam,” said her wary attendant, who saw what a transport of rage she was in—“ I am delighted that honour is so precious in your eyes that, for its saled her feelings after his death as she had concealed them during his life, as if she would make amends for the wrong she had done him. And l have been told that for all they gave her a husband to console her, she never afterwards knew real joy.* Does it not strike you, gentlemen, who refuse to believe me, that this example must force you to confers that love, too much concealed and too little known, brings people to the grave? There is not one of you but knows the relations on both sides; therefore you cannot question the fact. But this is one of those things which no one believes until he has experienced it. “ Well,” said Hircan, who saw that the ladies were weeping *a greater fool I never heard of. Now, in good faith, is it reasonable that we should die for women who are made only for us, and that we should be afraid of asking of them what God commands them to give? I do not speak for myself, or for others who are married, for I have as much as 1 w.mt in that * It is possible that this may be, as Margaret asserts, a true story of her own day, but it very closely resembles the history of the troubadour Geoffroi Rudel of Blaye, who lived in the latter part of the twelfth century. Merely upon hear¬ say of the moral and personal perfections of the Countess of Tripoli, he fel) so desperately in love with her that he pined away, and embarked, in an advanced stage of illness, to go and see her. When the vessel reached the port of Tripoli he was too weak to quit it. Moved by so extraordinary a display ^f love, the countess visited him on board, took his hand, and spoke graciously and cheertngly to him. Geoffroi could hardly falter out his thanks, and, ovezcozuc by emotion, instantly expired. ♦8 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. way, or more ; but I say it for those who stand in need, The.v are, to my thinking, grtat blockheads to fear tho^e who ought to fear them. Don’t you see that this girl repen ed of her impru¬ dence ? Since she embraced the dead man—a thing repugnant to nature —rely upon it, she would still better have embraced the living man, if he had bem as bold as he was pitiable on his deathbed." “ By the very conduct for which you upbraid him,” said Oisille, “ he showed that he loved honestly, and for that he deserves eternal praise ; for chastity in an enamoured heart is a thing npore divine than human.” “ Ma<1am,” replied Saffredent, “to confirm what Hircan has just said, I beg you to believe that fortune favours those who are bold, and ihat no man who 'S loved by a lady fails to obtain from her at last what he demands, either in whole or in part, pro¬ vided he knows how to set about it sagely and amorously ; but ignorance and timidity make men lo e many a good fortune. What is singular is, that they attribute the loss of them to the virtue of their mistress, which they have never put to the least proof. Be assured, madam, that no fortress was ever well attacked but it was taken at last.” “ I am snockrd at you two,” said Parlemente, “that you dare to hold such language. Those whom you have loved have little reason to be obliged to you ; or else you have employed your address upon such easy conquests that you have concluded all others are like them.” “ For my part, madam,” said Saffredent, “ I have the mis¬ fortune to have nothing to boast of ; but this I attribute much less to the virtue of the ladies than to the fault I have committed in not having conducted my enterprises with sufficient sagacity and prudence. In support of my opinion, I shall cite no other authority than that of the old woman in the ‘ Romance of the Rose,’ who says, ‘ Without question, fair sir, we are all made for each other ; every she for every he, and every he for every she.’ In short, I am persuaded that if a woman is once in love, her lover will compass his end unless he be a booby.” “ Now if I should name a lady,” returned Parlamente, “who loved well, was strongly solicited, pressed, and importuned, and yet remained a virtuous woman, victorious over her love and her lover, would you own that this fact, which is truth itself, was possible ? ” * «* Why, yes,” replied Saffredent. “Then you are very incredulous if you do not believe tli« eiample adduced by Dagoucin.” Fwl tO.] First Day . 49 “ As I have given you,” said Dagoucin, “an authentic instance of virtuous love on the part of a gentleman, which continued to his last gasp, if you, madam, know any story that is to the honour of some lady, I beg you will be good enough to finish the day by relating it. Never mind the length ; for there is time enough still to say many good things.” “ Since I am to finish the day,” said Parlamente, “ I will not make you a long preamble, my story being so good, so beautiful, and so true, that I long to put you in possession of it. I have not been an eye-witness to the facts ; but I have them from an intimate friend of the hero, who related them to me on condition that if I repeated them I should conceal the names of the persons. Everything, then, which I am about to tell you is true, except the names, the places, and the country.” -foie cf-iw sy NOVEL X. The loves of Amadour and Florida, wherein are seen several stratagems and dissimulations, and the exemplary chastity of Florida. HERE was in the countv of Aranda, in Aragon, a lady who, while still quite young, was le ft a widow by Count ^Trancfarwith one son and one daughter, the ffitmr nf whom was named Florida. She spared no pains to bring up hench ilflren ar rording tnTfheir quality in virtue and ‘gootTb reeding, so that he r house was considered to be one of the most honourable in all the Spains, she often went to roleHoT - where the King of Spain tnenresided ; and when she came to Saragossa, which was not far from her own house, she used to remain a long time at the queen’s court, where she was as much esteemed as any lady could be. Going one day, according to her custom, to pay her court to the king, who was then in Saragossa, sue passed through a village belonging to the Viceroy of Cata¬ lonia, who did not quit the frontiers of Perpignan, on account of the wars between the Kings of France and Spain. But as peace was then made, the viceroy, accompanied by several officers, had come to pay his devoirs to the king. The viceroy, having been apprised that the countess was to pass through his domains, went to meet her, as well by reason of the old friendship he bore her, as to do her honour as the king’s kinswoman. lie was accompanied by several gentlemen of merit, who had acquired so much glory and reputation during the wars that everyone thought it a good fortune to enjoy their society. There E 50 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. was one among them named Ama dour, who, notwithstanding his youth (he^was not more than eighteen or nineteen), had such an air of self-possession, and a judgment so ripe, rhat one would have chosen him among a thousand as a fit man to govern a state. It is true that besides good sens^he had so engaging a mien, and graces so vivid and natural, that one never tired of gazing upon him. His conversation so well corresponded with all this, that it was hard to say whether nature had been more bountiful in regard to corporeal or to mental endowments. But what gained him most esteem was his great daring, far exceeding what was common with persons of his age. He had on so many occasions shown what he was capable of, that not only Spain, but France and Italy also, highly esteemed his virtues, for he had never spared himself in any of the wars in which he had been engaged. When his country was at peace he went in search o c war among foreigners, and vror the respect and love of friends and enemies. This gentleman was among those who accompanied his captain to the domain at which the countess had arrived. He cguld not behold with indifference the bea uty and th e charms of her . daughter, who was t hen- but-tweLv£.y ^r1T'o Id. IT? had never,"he thought, seen a being so beautiful and oTliuch high breeding, and he believed that if he could have her good grace he should be happier than if he possessed all the wealth and all the pleasures he could receive from another. After having long regarded her, he finally resolved to love her, in spite of all the insurmountable obstacles to success which reason presented tc his view, whether on account of disparity of birth, or as regardec the extreme youth of the beautiful girl, who was not yet of an age to listen to tender speeches. Against all these obstacles he set a resolute hope, and promised himself that time and patience would bring all his toils to a happy end. To remedy the greatest difficulty, which consisted in the remoteness of his residence and the few opportunities he had of seeing Florida, he resolved to marry, contrary to what he had resolved in Barcelona and Perpignan, where he was in such favour with the ladies that they hardly refused him anything. He had lived so long on those frontiers during the war that he had the air of a Cata’an rather than of a Castilian, though he was born at Toledo, of a rich and distinguished family. Being a younger son , he had not much patrimony : but love and fortune, seem^ hTTiT itTprovided by his parents, resolved to make him k chef-d?BWre^ and gave him by means of his valour what the laws of the country refused Novel io.] First Day . 5 1 him. He was thoroughly versed in the art of war, and princes and lords esteemed him so highly that he oftener refused their good offices than took the trouble to solicit them. The Countess of Aranda arrived then in Saragossa, and was extremely well received by the king and the whole court. The Governor of Catalonia paid her frequent visits, in which Ama- dour failed not to accompany him, for the sole pleasure of seeing Florida,, for he, in order to make himself known in such good company, attached himself to th e daughter of an o ld knight, his neighbour. Her nam e was Aventuraaa. sne nacfbeen brought up from childhood with Florida, and Toiew all the secrets of her heart. Whether it was that Amadour found her to his taste, or that her dowry of three thousand ducats a year tempted him, made her an offer ot' marriage. She IisteneH to him witK” 'pleasure ; dui a§ he Was poor, and the old knig ht was rich, she ~ was a 1 raid he wouldI never consent'to the marriage, except at the ^solicitation oi the Countess of Aranda. She addressed herself, ^therefore, to k lorida, and" salff^ " THbielieve, madam, that this Castilian gentleman, wTio, as you are* aware, often speaks to me" \ here, intends to SfiftKTne in marriage. You know what sort of man my tather~is, and you must.be sure~he will never give hisT consent unless the counter and ynn haye the goodness to press Tiim strongly.” Florida^ who loved the damsel like herself, assured her ^he would make the business her own ; whereupon Av enturada presented Amadour to her, who on kissing her_ lik e to faint for joy. Though he was considered one of the men who spoke best in all the Spains, he could not find a tongue in presence of Florida. She was greatly surprised at this, for though she was but twelve years old, she nevertheless well remembered to have heard that there was not in Spain a man who could deliver what he had to say more fluently, or with a better grace. Seeing, then, that he uttered not a word, she broke silence. “ You are so well known by reputation all over the Spains,” she said, “that it would be surprising, Senor Amadour, if you were unknown here ; and all who know you desire t o hav e an opportunity to serve you. So if I can be of use to you in any way, I beg you will employ me.” Amadour, who was gazing on Florida’s charms, was so rapt and transported that he could hardly say grammercy. Though Florida was much surprised at ^ his silence, she attributed it to some caprice rather than to its '‘true cause, and retired without saying more. “ Do not be sur- prised,” said Amadour to her he wished to marry, “if 1 was 5* The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre . tongue-t ied in presence of the Lady Florida. She speaks so discreetly, allil so many ‘Vlfl.lics are latent under her great youtli, that admiration made me dumb. As you know her secrets, I beg you will tell me, Aventurada, how is it possible that she does not possess the hearts of all the gentlemen of this court, for those who shall know her and love her not must be stones or brutes.” _ Aventurada,^ho already loved A madour above a ll men, and coukTconceal nothing trom him, told him that ~FIorT 3 a was ' loved by everybody; but that, in accordance with thecustom of 'the country, she spoketo few : and that as yet she was aware o T~ • only two perso ns who made muclTsKow ot love tor Florida, and '""tn ose were two"young Spanish princes, w KoKtesrred to marry he r. ""One was the son ‘of the Fortun ate Intante , and the other was *the voun gDuke of Cardona. T ell me, pray.*’ s aid Amadour, “ which of the jwo do you think <;hp lo ves best ? ” She is so good and virtuous that all she can be prevailed oir ^to say is, that she has no choice but as her mother pleases. Aft A far, however, as we can judge, she likes the son of the Fortunate Infante better than the young Uu and to write frequently to his wife ]_yet in all this Florida knew nothing but that she loved hftn l ike a brother . T Amadour went" and came several times, and during five years he saw -Flrq-jda not more than two months altogether. Yet, in spite of distance and long absehce~his ldve"'ndt bnlyTremained "in lull iorceT^ but even g rew stronger. las t ft row ing to see his wife, found the countess for lV »^y fr^m -t-hft f-nr The king had gone into Andalusia, ' and had taken with him the young CounT*oT ArahdUpwhcPwas" already beginning to bear arms, and the countess had retired to a country-house of hers on the frontier of Aragon and Navarre. She was very glad of the arrival of Amadour, whom she had not seen for nearly three years. H e was welcomed by everybody, and the ci im ^w w^- ^ < iiiiiraiidr 7 l -lF ^TT~^h' o 'uld be treated as her ‘ own son. When he was with her, she consulted him on all the affairs of her house, and did just as he advised. In fact, his in¬ fluence in the family was unbounded ; and so strong was the be¬ lief in his discernment that he was trusted on all occasions as though he had been a saint or an angel. As for Florida, who loved Aventurada, and had no suspicion of her husband’s inten¬ tions, she testified her affection for him without reserve. Her heart being free from passion, she felt much pleasure in his so¬ ciety, but she felt nothing more. He, on the other hand, found it a very hand task to evade the penetration of those who knew by experience the difference between the looks of a man who loves and of one who does not love ; for when Florida talked familiarly with him in her frank simplicity, the hidden fire in his heart blazed up so violently that he could not help feeling it in his face, and letting some sparks from it escape from his eyes. To baffle observation, therefore, he entered into an intrigue with viiamerf ’T'aulina" woo was consiaerea in hei^time so b KflTtT^ ful that few men saw her and escaped her fascination's! ""Paul ina "'iTeing a ware htJuTAmado ur hacTTnade love in Barcelona and r TVerpignan, and wo n jFe hearts ot the h'anTsdinest lames irTtKe country, especially that of a certain Countess ot Falamos, ^who~ was reputed the finest woman in all Spain, told him one da^ that sire pitied him tor having, after so many good fortunes, marrieT Novel ro.] hirst Day. 55 a wife so ugly as his own. Amadour. who well knew that she had aTrilnd to supply his wants, talked Toiler in the most enga ¬ ging terms he c ould use, hoping to conceal a truth from her by making her belie ve”a falsehood. As she had experience in love, *■ she did not content herself with words, and plainly perceiving that Amadour’s heart was not her own, she made no doubt that he wanted to use her as a stalking-horse. With this suspicion in her mind, she observed him so narrowly that not a single glance of his eyes escaped her ; but he managed, though with the utmost difficulty, to regulate them so well that she could never get beyond conjectures. Florida, who had no notion of the nature of Amadour’s feelings towards her, used to speak to him so fami¬ liarly before Paulina that he could hardly prevent his eyes from following the movements of his heart. To prevent bad conse¬ quences. one day, as Florida a nd he were talking together at a window, he said to her, “ M y dear, I beseec h yo u to advise me which of the two is betteTT to~speak or to die? ' 1 “I shall always advise my f riends to speak,” she replied, with¬ out*" hesitation \ " tot* rhefe are fe w words which cannot hp " "remedied ! but from death there is no return.” “ You promise me, then, that not only you will not be angry at what I want to tell you, but even that you will not give way to surprise until I have laid my whole mind open to you ? ” “ Say what you please,” replied Florida, “for if you surprise me there is no one who can reassure me.” “Two reasons, madam, have hindered me hitherto from de¬ claring the strong passion I feel for you : one is, that I wished to make it known to you by long services, and the other, that I was afraid you would n gard it as a great vanity that a simple gentle¬ man like myself should raise his desires so high. Even though my birth were as illustrious as your own, a heart so true as yours would take it ill that any other than he on whom you have be¬ stowed it, the son of the Fortunate Infante, should talk to you of love. But, madam, as in war necessity often compels the belli¬ gerent to destroy his own property, and ruin his standing crops that the enemy may not profit by them, so I venture to forestall the fruit which 1 hoped to gather in time, lest your enemies and mine profit by out loss. Know, madam, that from the first moment I had the honour of seeing you, I so wholly consecrated myself to your service, though you were very young, that I have forgotten nothing whereby I couid hope to acquire your good grace. It was to that end alone that I married her whom I thought you loved best; and knowing the love you bore to the son of the For- 56 The Heptameron of the Queen of Nazar re. tunate Infante, I took pains to serve him and be about him ; in short, whatever 1 thought could please you, I have tried with all my might to do. You see that 1 have had the good fortune to win the esteem of the countess your mother, of the count your brother, and of all those whom you love, and that 1 am regarded here r.ot as a servant, but as a son of the fami ly. All the pains 1 have taken for five years nave had no other object than to procure me the happiness of passing my whole life with you. 1 crave no favour or pleasure of you which is not consistent with virtue. 1 know that I cannot wed you, and if I could I would not do so to the prejudice of the love you bear to him whom I would gladly see as your husband. To love you with a criminal love, like those who presume to think that a lady’s dishonour should be the recom¬ pense of their long services, is a thought I am so far from enter¬ taining, that I would rather see you dead than know that you were less worthy of love, and that your virtue should suffer the least blemish for the sake of any pleasure whatever to myself. I ask but one thing of you in recompense for my long services, and that is, that you will deign to become a mistress so loyal as never to remove me from your good grace, but let me continue on my present footing, and trust in me more than in anyone besides. Fur¬ thermore, madam, do me the honour to he well assured that, be the matter what it may, should you have need of the life of a gentleman, you may count on mine, which I would sacrifice for you right gladly. 1 beseech you to believe, likewise, madam, that whatever 1 shall do that is honourable and virtuous shall be done for love of you. If, for sake of ladies inferior to you, I have done things which have been thought well of, what shall 1 not do for a mistress like you ? Things which I found difficult or impossible will seem ea^y to me. Hut it you will not permit me to be wholly devoted to you, my resolution is to fotsake the career of arms, and renounce the virtue which shall not have helped me at need. 1 entreat you, then, madam, to grant rne the just grace which I ask, and you cannot refuse in conscience and with honour.” Florida changed colour at a speech so novel to her. Surprise made her cast down her eyes; nevertheless, her good sense prompted her to reply, “ Does it need so long an harangue, Ama- dour, to ask of me what you have already ? I fear so much that, under your seemingly courteous and modest language, there is some lurking mischief to deceive my unpractised youth, that I know not how to reply to you. Were I to reject the virtuous friendship you offer me, I should do contrary to what 1 have Novel io,] First Day. 53 done hitherto ; for you are the person in whom I have reposed \ most confidence. My conscience and my honour do not revolt either against your request or against the love I bear to the son of the Fortunate Infante, since it rests on marriage, to which you do not aspire. There is nothing, then, to hinder me from replying in accordance with your desires, except a fear 1 have in my heart, proceeding from the little occasion you have for speak ing to me as you do ; for if you already have what you ask, how comes it that you ask for it again with so much eagerness ? ” “You speak very prudently madam,” replied Amadour, who had his answer ready, “and you do me so much honour and so much justice in putting the confidence in me you say. that if I were not content with such a blessing, I were unworthy of all others. But consider, madam, that he who wants to- build a durable edince must begin by laying a good and solid founda¬ tion. As I desire to remain for ever in your service, I think not only of the means of being near you, but also of hindering my attachment to you from being perceived. Though this attach¬ ment, madam, is quite pure, yet those w'ho do not know the hearts of lovers often judge ill of them, and this gives occasion for scandal as much as if their conjectures were well founded. What makes me speak of this is. that P aulina, who know s well that I cannot love her, suspects me so much that wherever I am she has her “eyes continuall y upo n me. When you speak to~~me f before her with so much kindness, I am so much afraid of making some gesture on which she may rest a surmise that I fall into the very thing I wish to avoid. I am therefore constrained, madam, to request you will not for the future address me so sud¬ denly before her, or before those whom you know to be as mali¬ cious as she is, for I would rather die than that any creature living should perceive it. If your honour was less dear to me, I should not have been in haste to say this to you, since I am so happy in the love and the confidence you manifest towards me, that I desire nothing more than their continuance.” Florida was so gratified that she could hardly contain herself, ctnd thenceforth she felt in her heart emotions that were new to her “ Virtue and good breeding reply for me,” she said, “and grant you what you request.” That Amadour was transported with joy will not be doubted by any who love. Florida followed his advice better than he could have wished ; for as she was timid not only in presence of Paulina, but everywhere else too, she no longer sought his society as she had been used to do. She even disapproved of his inter- 5 » The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. course with Paulina, who seemed to her so han dsome that she ^coulri not beli eve he d id not, lov e her. Florida vente a het klief * with Aventurada, wl o was beginning to be very jealous of her hu sban d and Paulina.' S he poured out her lamentations to~~~ who, being sick of the same distemper, consoled her as~ ^well as jiTre emild. -— -" --- ’ Amadour, soon perceiving the change in Florida’s conduct, believed not only that she was reserved, as he had advised her to be, but even that she had conceived unfavourable sentiments with regard to him. One day, as he was escorting her home from a convent where she had heard vespers, “What sort of coun¬ tenance do you show me, madam ? ” he said. “ Such as I believe you wish me to show,” she replied. Suspecting the truth then, he continued, “ I have taken such means, madam, that Paulina no longer suspects you.” “ You could not do better for yourself and for me,” she replied ; “ for while doing yourself pleasure, you do me honour.” Amadour, inferring from this that she believed he took pleasure in talking with Paulina, was so incensed that he could not help saying in anger, “ You begin betimes, madam, to make me suffer. I am more to be pitied than blamed, and the most cruel mortifi¬ cation I have ever endured in my life is the painful necessity I am under of speaking to a woman I do not love. Since you put a bad interpretation on what I have done for your service, I will never speak more to Paulina, happen what may. To hide my sorrow as I have hidden my joy, I will retire to some place in the neighbourhood, and wait there till your caprice has passed away. But I hope I shall receive news from my cap¬ tain, and be obliged to return to the army, where I will remain so long as will prove to you, I hope, that nothing keeps me here but you.” So saying, he went away without awaiting her reply, which caused Florida an anxiety it is impossible to express. Thus love began to make its strength felt through its opposite. Finding — nn r eflection that she had been wrong, Florida wrote to Ama¬ dour/ begging him to return, which he did after his a nger had somewha* c iih c1ft H I cannot tell you in detail what they said to each other to destroy these prejudices of jealousy : butt! res ult was that he justified himself so well that she prornis ecTnot «*l)hly th at she he loved Paulina, Dirt that she would remain convinced that it was a most cruel martyrdom lor him to speak to her, or any other woman, except oniy with & *' yiew to render her service. ' I Novel io.] First Day. 59 After love had dissipated this cloud, and when the lovers were beginning to take more pleasure than ever in each other’s society, news came that the King of Spain was sending his whole army to Salces. Amadour, whose custom it was to be among the first to join the royal standards, would not miss this new opportunity of acquiring glory ; but it must be owned that he set out with unwonted regret, as well on account of the pleasure he lost, as because he was afraid of finding a change on his return, jie ^reflected that Florida was now fifteen, that many princes and great lords were seeking - her hand, and that if she m arried during- hjjg absence he woilld jhgTg ho mute opportunity of seeing her T unless ]the Countess of Aranda^shol Tlcl give her Aventurada for her com- ^ pan ion.~ Accordingly, he managed so adroitly that the countess and Florida both promised him that, wherever the latter resided after her marriage, his wife should never leave her; and as there was a talk then of her being married in Portugal, it was resolved that Aventurada should accompany her to that country. Upon this assura nce Amadour took his depar ture, not without extreme regret, and lett his wile with the countess. Florida, left lonely by her lov er’s de parture, lived in such a maiTh^r as she P opeHwo uld gain lor her the renutation of the " "most pe rfec t virtue, and make the whole world confess that she_. merited such a servant as A.marionr._ as t'nr him, on arriving at Barcelona, he was cordially welcomeffby the ladies ; but they found him so changed that they never could have believed that marriage could have such an effect upon a man. In fact, he was no longer the same ; he was even vexed at the sight of what he formerly desired • and the Countess of Palamos, of whom he had been so enamoured, could never find means to make him even visit her. Being impatient to re ach the spot where honour was to b e gamed, he made as short a stay as possible in Barce^~ Iona. He was no sooner arrived at Salces than war broke out •’' ^vv'ithg reaF details ofTl formed between the two kings.' I will not enter into heroic actions per¬ nor enumerate the in it by Amadour, for then, instead of telling a tale, I should have to compose a great book. It is enough to say that his renown overtopped that of all his comrades in arms. The Duke of Nagyeres, who commanded tw o thousand men, arrived at Perpignan, and took Amadour lor his lieutenant. Hfe did Ills duty so well with his little corps that in every skirmish no other cry was heard than that of Nagyeres! Now the King of Tunis, who had long been at war with the Spaniards, learning that Spain and France were waging mutual 6o The Heptame) of the Queen of Navarre. hostilities about Perpignan and Narbonne, thought it a good op¬ portunity to harass the King of Spain, and sent a great number of ships to pillage and destroy every ill-guarded point they found on the coasts of Spain. The people of Barcelona, seeing so many strange sail pass by, sent word to the viceroy, who was then at Salces, and who immediately despatched the Duke ot Nagyeres to Palamos. The barbarians, finding the place so well defended, made a feint of sheering off; but they returned in the night, and landed so many men that the Duke of Nagyeres, who had let himself be surprised, was taken prisoner. Amadour, who was very vigilant, hearing the noise, assembled instantly as many of his men as he could, and made so stout a resistance that the enemy, however superior in numbers, were for a long time held at bay. But at last, learning that the Duke of Nagyeres was a prisoner, and that the Turks were resolved to burn Palamos and the house in which he withstood them, he thought it better to surrender than to cause the loss of those who had followed him. Besides, by paying for his ransom, he expected to see Florida again. He surrendered then to a Turk named Dorlin, Viceroy of Tunis, who presented him to his master, in whose service he remained nearly two years, honoured and well treated, but still better guarded ; for, having him in their hands, the Turks thought they had the Achilles of all the Spains. The news of this event having reached Spain, the relations of the Duke of Nagyeres were greatly affected at his disaster ; but those who had the glory of the country at heart thought the loss of Amadour still more grievous. It became known to the Countess of Aranda, in whose house poor Aventurada lay dangerously ill. The countess, who had great misgivings as to the tender feelings which Amadour entertained for her daughter, but concealed or tried to suppress them, in consideration of the virtues which she recognized in him, called her daughter aside to communicate this painful intelligence to her. Florida, who could dissemble well, said it was a great loss for their whole house, and that, above all, she pitied his p npr wife, wfrp, to make the matter w orse, was oiflier sick bed ; but seeing that her mother wept much, she let fall a tew tears to keep her company, for fear that the feint should be discovered by being overdone. The countess often talked with her again on the subject, but could never draw from her any indication on which she could form a definite conclusion. I will say nothing of the pilgrimages, prayers, orisons, and fasts which Florida regularly performed for Amadour’s safety. Immediately on his reaching Tunis, he sent 6i Novel io.l First Day . an expressto Florida to acquaint her that he was in good health, * and full of hope that he should see her again, which was a great consolation to her. In return, she corresponded with him sc diligently that Amadour had not leisure to grow impatient. At this period the countess received orders to repair to Saragossa, where the king was. The young Duk e o f Cardona 'Was there, and bestirred himself so effectually with the king and ThS'TJUeemtnn they Lagged” the countess to conclude the mar- * riage betw een him and FtuiiiU. - The cuimtessi who neither* could nor would~refuse their majesties anything, consented to it the more willingly as she believed that her daughter would at those years have no other will than hers. All being settled, she told her daughter she had chosen for her the match she thought would be most advantageous ; and Florida submitted, seeing no room was left her for deliberation, the business being already set- tied. To make matters worse, she heard that the Fortunate Inta nte was a! the point of death. She never suffered the least evidence ’ of her mortification to escape in presence of her mother or any¬ one else ; and so strongly did she conceal her feelings, that in¬ stead of shedding tears she was seized with a bleeding at the nose so copious as to endanger her life. By way of re-establish¬ ing her health, she married the man she would willingly have exchanged for death. After her marriage she went with her husband to the duchy of Cardona, and took with her Aven- turada, whom she acquainted, in confidence, with her mother’s harshness towards her, and her regret for the loss of the For¬ tunate Infante ; but with regard to Amadour, she spoke of him only to console his wife. Resolutely setting God and honour before her eyes, she so well concealed her sorrow that none of those who were most intimate with her ever perceived that she disliked her husband. For a long time did she continue this life, which was hardly better than death. She failed not to make all known to Ama¬ dour, who, knowing the greatness of her heart, and how she had loved the Fortunate Infante, thought it impossible she could live long, and mourned for her as one whom he looked upon as worse than dead. This affliction augmented that under which he already laboured. Gladly would he have been a slave all his life, so Florida had found a husband after her own heart ; for the thought of his mistress’s sorrows made him forget his own. Mean¬ while, he learned from a friend he had made at the court of Tunis, that the king was resolved to give him his choice, either to re¬ nounce his faith or be impaled, for he wished to keep him in his 62 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. service, if he could make a good Turk of him. To prevent this, Amadour prevailed upon his master to let him go upon his parole without speaking to the king ; and his ransom was set so high that the Turk calculated that a man who had so little wealth could never raise the amount. On his return to the court of Spain he made but a short stay there, and went away to seek his ransom in the purses of his friends. He went straight to Barcelona, whither the young Duke of Cardona, his mother, and Florida were gone on some business. Aventurada was no sooner apprised of her husband’s return than she imparted the news to Florida, who rejoiced at it as if for her sake. But for fear lest the joy of again beholding Amadour should produce a change in her countenance, which might be noticed by those who did not know her, and therefore would misjudge her, she placed herself at a window, in order to catch sight of him at a distance, and the moment she perceived him, running down a staircase so dark that it was impossible to discern if she changed colour, she embraced him, took him up to her chamber, and then presented him to her mother-in-law, who had never seen him. He had not been there two days before he was as great a favourite as he had been in the house of the Countess of Aranda. I will say nothing of the conversation between Florida and Amadour, nor all she told him of the afflictions she had incurred during his absence. After many tears wrung from her eyes by her grief at having married contrary to her inclination, and at having lost him whom she loved so passionately, and whom she never hoped to see again, she resolved to console herself with the love and confidence she had in Amadour. However, she durst not avow her intentions ; but Amadour, who suspected them, lost neither time nor opportunity to make known to her how much he loved her. Just when Florida could hardly refrain from advancing Amadour from the condition of an expectant to that of a favoured lover, a distressing and very inopportune accident occurred. The king summoned Amadour to the court upon an affair of importance. His wife was so shocked by this news that she fainted, and falling down a flight of stairs, hurt herself so much that she never recovered. Florida, whom her death bereaved of all her con¬ solation, was as much afflicted as one who had lost all her good friends and relations. Amadour was inconsolable, for, on the one hand he lost one of the best of wives, and, on the other hand, the means of being again with Florida; and so over¬ whelming was his grief that he was near dying suddenly. The / Novel io J Fust Day . 63 old Duchess of Cardona was constantly at his bedside, repeating * the arguments of the philosophers to console him ; but it was of no avail, for if his grief for the dead was great, his love for the living made him a martyr. Amadour’s wife being interred, and the king’s orders being pressing, he could find no pretext to prolong his stay ; which so augmented his anguish that he had like to lose his senses. Florida, who, thinking to console him, was his very desolation, passed a whole afternoon in conversing with him in the most gracious manner, thinking to comfort him by the assurance that she would always find means to see him, oftener than he supposed. As he was to depart on the following day, and was so weak that he could not quit his bed, he entreated her to come again in the evening to see him, after everyone else had left him. She promised to do so, not knowing that excessive love knows no restraint of reason ; whilst he, desparing for the future of seeing her whom he had so long loved, and of whom he had never had but what you have seen, was so racked by his love and his despair that he resolved to play, as it vvere, at double or quits— that is to say, to win or lose all, and to pay himself in one hour for what he thought he had merited. He had his bed hung with such good curtains that he could not be seen by persons in the room, and he complained more than usual, so that everybody in the house thought he had not four-and-twenty hours to live. After everyone else had visited him in the evening, Florida came, at the request of her husband himself, to see him, her mind made up to console him by a declaration of her affection, and to tell him, without disguise or reserve, that she was resolved to love him as much as honour could allow her. Seated beside the head of his bed, she began her consolations by weeping with him ; seeing which, Amadour fancied that in this great agitation of her mind he could the more easily accomplish his purpose, and he sat up in his bed. Florida, thinking he was too weak to do this, offered to prevent him. “Must I lose you for ever?” he ex¬ claimed, on his knees ; and saying this he let himself fall into her arms like a man whose strength suddenly failed him. Poor Florida embraced and supported him a long while, doing her best to comfort him ; but the remedy she applied to assuage his pain increased it greatly. Still counterfeiting the appearance of one half dead, and saying not a word, he set himself in quest of what the honour or ladies prohibits. Florida, seeing his bad intention, but unable to believe it after the laudable language ne had always addressed to her, asked him \>hat he meant. Ama- 64 The Heptameron of the Queen ?f Navarre. dour, fearing to provoke a reply which he knew could not be other than chaste and virtuous, went straight to his mark with¬ out saying a word. Florida’s surprise was extreme, and choosing rather to believe that his brain was turned than that he had a deliberate design upon her virtue, she called aloud to a gentle¬ man who she knew was in the room ; whereupon Amadour, in an agony of despair, threw himself back on his bed so suddenly that the gentleman thought he was dead. Florida, who had risen from her chair, sent the gentleman to fetch some vinegar, and then said to Amadour, “ Are you mad, Amadour ? What is this you have thought of doing r” “ Do such long services as mine merit such cruelty?” replied Amadour, who had lost all reason in the violence of his love. “ And where is that honour you have so often preached to me ? ” she retorted. “ Ah, madam,” said he, “ it is impossible to love your honour more than I have done. As long as you were unmarried I so well mastered my passion that you never were aware of it ; but now that you are married and your honour is shielded, what wrong do 1 do you in asking of ybu what belongs to me? For have I not won you by the force of my love ? The first who had your heart has so little coveted your body that he deserved to lose both. He who possesses your body is unworthy to have your heart, and consequently your body even does not belong to him. But I have taken such pains for your sake during the last five or six years that you cannot but be aware, madam, that to me alone belong your body and your heart, for which I have forgotten my own. If you think to excuse youself on the ground of con¬ science, doubt not that when love forces the body and the heart, sin is never imputed. Those even who are so infuriated as to kill themselves cannot sin ; for passion leaves no room for reason. And if the passion of love is the most intolerable ot all others, and that which most blinds all the senses, what sin would you attribute to him who lets himself be led by an in¬ vincible power ? I am constrained to go away without the hope of ever seeing you again. But if I had from you before my departure that assurance which my love deserves, I should be strong enough patiently to endure the pains of that long absence. If, however, you will not grant me what I ask, you will soon learn that your rigour has caused me to perish miserably.” Florida, equally astonished and grieved at hearing such language from a man whom till then she had jiever d’strusted, replied, in tears, “ Is this, Amaaour, the end of all the virtuous Novel i o.] First Day. 6 5 speeches you have maae me during my youth ? Is this the *Ronour and the consc ierxce you have o ften coun s^TTecf" me to " prize more than rny own life \ Hpvp ymV for gotten the go od examples y ou have given me of virtuous ladies who have with¬ st ood criminal love, and the scorn you have always expressed 25 EL_ ~~ the wan ton ? I cannot believe, Amadour, that you a’-e so different from votirselt'that God, you r conscience, and my honour are dead in you. But if what you say" 15 IPue, 1 thank God ~ ^ for having prevented the misfortune into which I had nearly fallen, by causing your tongue to make known to me the bottom of your heart, which I have never fathomed till now. After losing the son of the Fortunat e Infante, not only bv my mar¬ riage, but also because I kn ow he l oves another, and seeing ~myse lt‘ wedded to a man 1 cannot love fn s pite of all my efforts, 1 had resolved to love you wiffi my whol e heart basing mv r allection on that virtue which l thought 1 discerned in von, and ^WhiclTl think I have attained through your means , which is to ^ove my honour and my conscience more than my very iite. \Vith these laudable Views I had come, Amadour, to lay a good foundation for the future ; but you have convinced me that I should have built on a drifting sand, or rather on loathsome mud ; and though a great part of the house was already built, in which I hoped perpetually to abide, you have knocked it all down at a blow So never more expect anything of me ; and never think of speaking to me, wherever I may be, either with your tongue or your eyes ; and be assured that my sentiments will never change. I say this to you with extreme regret. If I had plighted you a perfect friendship, I am sure my heart could not have borne this rupture and lived ; though, indeed, the amazement into which I am cast at having been deceived is so intense and poignant that, if it does not cut short my life, it will at least render it very unhappy. I have no more to say but to bid you an eternal farewell.” I will not attempt to describe the anguish of Amadour at hearing these words. It would be impossible not only to depict it but even to imagine it, except for those who have been in a similar position. As Flor ida turned to depart, he ca ught her by the arm, well knowing tha t he should lose her tor ever unless he removecTthe bad opinion his conduct had caused her ^to entertain ot him. rr lr~nas been the longing of my wlfuTe' madam," he said, with the most sanctimonious countenance he could assume, “ to love a woman of virtue ; and as I have tound_ few such. I w’sh£(!l to know if you were as estimable ln^that, - - - 66 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navari e. respect as you are for beauty ; whereof I am now, thanks be to 0 God, tuliy convinced. I congratulate"myseli on havingsglve’n "my heart to such an assemblage of perfections; and I entreat you, madam, to pardon my caprice and my audacity, since the denouement is so glorious for you, and yields me such pleasure.” Florida was beginning to have her eyes opened to the wiles of men ; and as she had been slow to believe evil where it existed, she was still slower to believe good where it was not. “ Would to God,” she said, “ that your words were true ; but I am not so ignorant but that my married experience shows me clearly that the force and infatuation of passion have made you do what you have done. Had God suffered me to slacken the reins, I am quite sure you would not have tightened them. No one would think of looking for virtue in that sort of way. But enough of this. If I too lightly gave you credit for some goodness, it is time I should know the truth, which now delivers me out of your hands.” So saying, she left the room, and passed the whole night in tears. The anguish she felt from the change was so great that she could hardly bear it. Reason told her she should cease to love, but her heart told her quite another thing, and who can master the heart? Unable, then, to overcome her love, she resolved to cherish it as warmly as ever, but to suppress all tokens of it for the satisfaction of her honour. Amadour went away the n ext day in a state of mind easily imagined, His great heart, however, in stead ot letting 1 him yltMd, to despair, suggeste d tr> a device whereby~ ~he~~might " again see Florida and regain her goodwill. Taking the road then "" to Toledo, where the King of Spain was residing, he passed through the county of Aranda, arrived late one evening at the countess’s mansion, and found the countess sick with grief at the absence of Florida. She kissed and embraced Amadour as though he were her own son, both because she loved him, and because she suspected that he loved Florida. She asked news of her, and he gave her as much as he could, but not all true. He avowed the friendship which subsisted between them, which Florida had always concealed, begged her mother often to send him news of her, and to bring her soon to Aranda. He passed the night at the countess’s, and continued his journey next day. ► Having despatched his bu siness with the king, he joined the t\£ k armv. but looked so m^ncholy^ nd^-XhangeiiJJiat th^ lndip^ vt ^C *and the cap tams with he was intimate could hardly_heljpyp t aH- Jie was the same man. He wore only black clothes, and those of a •V* much coarser kind than was requisite for the mourning he wore Novel io.] y First Day. 67 ostensibly for his wife, whose death served as a convenient pre¬ te xt for his sadness. Amadour lived in this way for three 01 lour years without returning to court. The Countess of Aranda, hearing that her daughter was piteously changed, wanted her to come back to her, but Florida would not; for when she learned that Amadour had acquainted her mother with their mutual ~“Tnendship. and tip * h^r mot her, though so d i=^r ppt a »d r had so much confidence in Am adour that she approved of it ^h^ ~ Wa§ In i nai vellous p e r p lexity! On the one hand, she considered Thai If she told her mother the truth it might occasion mischief to Amadour, which she would not have done for her life, believing that she was quite able to punish his insolence without any help from her relations. On the other hand, she foresaw that, if she concealed his misconduct, her mother and her friends would oblige her to speak with him and show him a fair countenance, and thereby, as she feared, encourage his evil intentions. How¬ ever, as he was far away, she said nothing of what was past, and wrote to him when the countess desired her to do so ; but it was plain from the tone of her letters, that they were written, not from her spontaneous impulses, but in obedience to her mother, so that Amadour felt pain in reading them instead of the trans¬ ports of joy with which he had formerly received them. Having during two or three years performed so many fine ^ ^-exploits that all the paper in Spain could not contain them, he be f devised a grand scheme, not to regain Florida’s heart, for he^ believed he had lost it wholly,Tiut to v anquish his e nemy, since she declared herseil. Setting aside reason, and even the f y iear ol death to which he exposed himself, he adopted the fol- 1 ^ lowing course. He made such interest with the governor-in¬ chief that he was deputed to go and report to the king respecting certain enterprises that were in hand against Leucate; and, withou' caring for the consequences, he communicated the pur¬ port of his journey to the Countess of Aranda before he had mentioned it to the king. As he knew that Florida was with her mother, he posted to the countess’s, under pretence of wish¬ ing to take her advice, and sent one of his friends before him to apprise her of his coming, begging she would not mention it, and would do him the favour to speak with him at night unknown to everyone. The countess, very glad of this news, imparted it to Florida, and sent her to undress in her husband’s room, that she might be ready when she should send for her after everyone was in bed. Florida, who had not recovered from her first fear, taid nothing of it, however, to her mother, and went to hei 68 The Heptameron of the Quee?i of Navarre. oratory to commend herself to God, and pray that He would guard her heart from all weakness. Remembering that Amadour had oft en praised her for her beauty, which bad lost nothing by "her lon g illness, she chose rather to impair It with her own hand "Than to suffer it to kindle so criminal a fi re in the heart of so"’'’ * worthy""a m^rC^To this end she took a~stone, which - 'she"foilflth Cpportunely7""and gave herself such a great blow with it on the face that her mouth, eyes, and nose were quite disfigured. That it might not appear she had done it designedly, when the coun¬ tess sent for her she let herself fall on coming out of her oratory. The countess hearing her cries hurried to her, and found her in that sad condition. Florida raised hers<-lf up and told her mother she had struck her face against a great stone. Her wounds were immediately dressed and her face bandaged, after which her mother sent her to her own chamber, and begged her to enter¬ tain Amadour, who was in her cabinet, until she had got rid of her company. Florida o beyed, sup posing that Amadour had some one wit h him : but when she found herself alo'nt l WlTh"lTirn| > ^pri -tfi£_< ioor closed, she was as much vexed as Amadour was d elighted, fancying that he should achieve, by fair mea ns or by 'force, what he had so long coveted. * Alter a brief conversation, finding her sentiments unchanged, and hearing from her lips a protestation that, though it were to cost her her life, she would never swerve from the principles she had professed at their last meeting, he exclaimed, desperately, “ By God, Florida, your scruples shall not deprive me of the fruit of *ny toils. Since love, patience, and entreaties are of no avail, x will employ force to have that without which I should perish,” Amadour’s visage and his eyes were so changed that the handsomest complexion in the world was become red as fire, and the mildest and most agreeable aspect so horrible and furious that it seemed as though the fire in his heart blazed out through his eyes. In his rage he had seized both Florida’s delicate hands in his strong gripe, and finding herself deprived of all means of defence or flight, she thought the only chance left her was to try if his former love was so extinct that it could not dis¬ arm his cruelty. “ If I must no w look upon you as an enemy. Amadour, she sai'fl,T ^qpJTr^v^ii, hy fhp virtuous lo ve with which I formerly be lieve d your heart was animated, at leasTT c) near me befor e you d o me violence. What can possess you, Amadour, 1 ’she said, “seeing that he listened to her, "to desire a thing that can give you no pleasure, and would overwhelm me with grief ? You have so well known my sentiments during my -9 Novel io.J ^ First Day. youth and my prime, which might have served as an excuse for your passion, that I wonder how, at my present age, and ugly as you see I am, you seek for that which you know you cannot find. I am sure you do not doubt that my sentiments are still the same, and, consequently, that nothing but violence can enable you to obtain your wishes. Look at the state of my face, forget the beauty you have seen in it, and you will lose all desire to approach me. If there is any remnant of love in your heart, it is impossible but that pity shall prevail over your rage. It is to your pity, and to the virtue of which you have given me so many proofs, that I appeal for mercy. Do not destroy my peace of mind, and make no attempt upon my honour, which, in accord¬ ance with your counsel, I am resolved to preserve. If the love you had for me has degenerated into hate, and you design from vindictiveness rather than affection to make me the most miserable woman on earth, I declare to you that it shall not be so, and that you will force me to complain openly of your vicious conduct to her who is so prejudiced in your favour. If you reduce me to this extremity, consider that your life is not safe.” “ If I must die,” replied Amadour, “ a moment will put an end to all my troubles ; but the disfigurement of your face, which I believe is your own work, shall not hinder me from doing what I am resolved ; for though I could have nothing of you but your bones, I would have them close to me.” Finding that entreaties, arguments, and tears were useless, Florida had recourse to what she feared as much as the loss of life, and screamed out as loudly as she could to her mother. The countess, on hearing her cries, at once suspected the truth, and hastened to her with the utmost promptitude. Amadour, who was not so near dying as he said, let go his hold so quickly that the countess, on opening the cabinet, found him at the door, and Florida far enough away from him. “ What is the matter, Amadour ? ” said the countess. “ Tell me the truth.” Amadour, who was prepared beforehand, and was never at a loss for an expedient at need, answered, with a pale and woebegone counten¬ ance, “Alas! madam, I no longer recognize Florida. Never was man more surprised than 1 am. I thought, as I told you, that I had some share in her goodwill, but now I see plainly I have no longer any. Methinks, madam, that whilst she lived with you she was neither less discreet nor less virtuous than she is now ; but she had no squeams of conscience to hinder her from talking to people and looking them in the face. I wanted to look at her, but she would not allow it. Seeing this, I though 70 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. I must be in a dream or a trance, and I aaked leave to kiss her hand, according to the custom of the country, but she absolutely refused it. It is true, madam, I have done wrong, and I crave your pardon for it, in taking her hand and kissing it in a manner by force. I asked nothing more of her, but I see plainly that she is resolved upon my death, and that, I believe, is why she called you, Perhaps she was afraid I had some other design upon her. Be that as it may, madam, I acknowledge I was wrong ; for though she ought to love all your good servants, such is my ill-luck, that I have no part in her goodwill. My heart will not change for all that, with regard either to her or to you ; and I entreat you, madam, to let me retain your goodwill, since I have lost hers without deserving it.” The countess, who partly believed and partly doubted, asked her why she had called out so loudly. Florida replied that she did so because she was frightened. The countess asked her many other questions, and never got any but the same reply ; for having escaped from her enemy, Florida thought him sufficiently punished by the disappointment. After the countess had con¬ versed a long time with Amadour, she let him talk again with Florida in her presence, in order to see how he would look ; but he said little to her, and contented himself with thanking her for not having told her mother, and begging her that at least, since he was banished from her heart, another might not profit by his disgrace. “If I could have defended myself in any other way,” said Florida, “all would have passed between our two selves. You shall be let off with this, unless you force me to do worse. Do not be afraid that I shall ever love ; for since 1 have been deceived in my judgment of a heart which I thought was full of virtue, I shall never believe that a man exists who is worthy to be trusted. This misfortune will make me banish for ever from my breast all passions which love can occasion.” So saying, she took leave of him. Her mot her, wh o had been watc hing t hem, could come to no c onclusi on, evrppt ihat s he sa w clearly fhat her daughter had rib long er any friend ship for Amarlnur. She thought thlsT^unreason¬ able, and that it was enough for herself to like anyone to make Florida conceive an aversion for that person. From that moment she was so displeased with her that for seven years she never spoke to her but with asperity, and all this at the solici¬ tation of Amadour. Florida, who had formerly shunned nothing so much as her husband’s presence, resolved to pass all her life by his side, to avoid her mother’s harshness ; but seeing N'ovel io.] First Day, 71 that nothing succeeded with her, she made up her mind to deceive Amadour. To this end she pretended to be more tract¬ able, and advised him to attach himself to a lady to whom she said she had spoken of their mutual love. This lady, who was in the queen’s household, and whose name was Loretta, delighted at having made such a conquest, was so little mistress of her transports that the affair became noised abroad. The Countess of Aranda herself, being at court, became aware of it, and after¬ wards treated Florida with more gentleness. Loretta’s husband, who was a captain, and one of the King of Spain’s great governors, was so incensed that he was resolved to kill Amadour at all hazards ; but Florida, who heard of this, and, in spite of herself, still loved Amadour, instantly gave him warning. Eager as he was to return to her, he replied that if she would grant him every day three hours’ conversation, he would never speak another word to Loretta ; but she would do nothing of the sort. “ Since, then, you do not wish me to live,” said Amadour, “ why would you hinder me from dying, unless you hope to make me suffer more in living than the pain of a thousand deaths ? Let death fly me as it will, I will seek it, so that at last I shall find it, and then only I shall be at rest.” Meanwhile, news arrived that the King of Grenada had begun hostilities against the King of Spain, which obliged the king to send his son thither with the Constable of Castile and the Duke of Alva, two old and sage lords. The Duke of Cardona and the Count of Aranda desired to take part in the campaign, and begged the king to give them some command. The king gave them appointments suitable to their quality, and desired they should act under the advice of Amadour, who performed during . the war such astonishing acts as testified as much desperation as valour. His desperate rashness at last cost him his life. The Moors, having offered battle, gave way before the charge of the Spaniards, and made a feint of flying, in order to draw on the Christian army to pursue them. Their stratagem succeeded. The old Constable and the Duke of Alva, suspecting it, detained the Prince of Spain against his will, and hindered him from passing the river; but the Count of Aranda and the Duke of Cardona crossed it in defiance of orders to the contrary. The Moors, finding themselves pursued only by a small body, wheeled round. The Duke of Cardona was killed with a scimitar, and the Count of Aranda was so dangerously wounded that he was left for dead on the field. Amadour, coming up, cleft his way through the melee with such fury that one would have said he 72 The Ileptameron of the Queecn of Navarre. was a maniac, and had the bodies of the duke and the count carried to the camp of the prince, who regretted them as if they had been his own brothers. On examining their wounds, it was found that the Count of Aranda was not dead. He was laid on a litter and carried home, where he lay ill for a long time, d he body of the young duke was transported to Cardona. After res¬ cuing the two bodies, Amadour took so little care of his own person that he let himself be surrounded by a great number of Moors. Knowing, then, that if he fell into the hands of the King of Grenada he should die a cruel death, unless he renounced the Christian religion, he resolved not to give his enemies the glory of his death or his capture, but to surrender up his body and his soul to God ; and kissing the cross of his sword, he plunged it into his body with such force that no second blow was needed. Thus died poor Amadour, as much regretted as his virtues deserved. The news instantly spread from mouth to mouth all over Spain. Florida, who was then at Barcelona, where her husband had foimerly directed that he should be buried, after having caused his obsequies to be performed with pomp, retired into the convent of Jesus, without saying a word to her mother or her mother-in-law, taking for her spouse and lover Him who had delivered her from a love so violent as that of Amadour, and from the distress caused her by the society of such a hus¬ band. Her sole subsequent occupation and care was to love God so perfectly that, after having been a long time a nun, she sur¬ rendered up her soul to him with the joy with which a bride meets her husband.* I am afraid, ladies, you have found this long story tedious ; but it would have been still longer if I had given it as it was told * “We have every reason to believe that this novel-was suggested to the Queen of Navarre by some actual occurrence at the court of Charles VI11. and Louis XII. Whilst disguising the names of the principal actors, the princess has yet intermingled real events with her narrative. The beginningof the novel might even lead us to surmise that Margaret alludes in it to something in which she was personally concerned. The Countess of Aranda, left a very young widow, with a son and daughter, is very like Louise of Savoy and her two children. This, however, is a mere conjecture of ours, on which we by no means insist. “ For those who would like to attempt the solution of this little historical problem, we subjoin a list of some facts which occurred at the period in which the Queen of Navarre places her story. » ( Taking of Salces by the French in 1496. Don Henry of Aragon, Cou&i Novel io.] First Day. 73 to me. Imitate Florida’s virtues, ladies, but be not so cruel; and never esteem men so highly, lest, when you are undeceived, you bring upon them a miserable death, and a life of sorrow upon yourselves. “ Do you not think,” said Parlamente, turning to Hircan, “that this lady was tried to the utmost, and that she resisted virtuously ?” “No,” he replied; “for the least resistance a woman can decently make is to cry out. But what would she have done if she had been in a place where she could not be heard ? Besides, if Amadour had not been more swayed by fear than by love, he would not so easily have given up. So I still maintain that no man ever loved heartily, and was loved in return, who did not obtain what he sought if he went t'le right way about it I must, however, applaud Amadour for having in part done his duty.” “ Duty ?” said Oisille. “ Do you think that a servant does his duty in offering violence to his mistress, to whom he owes all respect and obedience?” “When our mistresses, madam,” replied Saffrendent, “hold their rank in chamber or hall, seated at their ease as our judges, we are on our knees before them ; we timidly lead them out to dance, and serve them with so much diligence that we anticipate their commands ; we have so much fear of offending them, and so much desire to serve them well, that no one can look upon us without compassion. We are often thought more witless than of Ribagorce, was then Viceroy of Catalonia, and Don Henry Henriquez Governor of Rousillon.—Truce between France and Spain in 1497.—Revolt at Grenada in 1499.—In 1500, revolt of the Moors in the Alpujarras ; King Ferdinand marches against them in person.—In 1501, defeat of the Spaniards, in which were killed Don Alfonso de Aguilar, Pedro de Sandoval, &c., &c. The Duke of Najera is sent against him.—In 1503 a Moorish fleet, consisting of ten Jlustes , ravages the coasts of Catalonia. That same year King Ferdi¬ nand burns Leucate.—In 1513, the King of Spain, to appease the feud existing between the Count of Ribagorce and the Count of Aranda, commissions Father Juan de Estuniga, Provincial of the Order of St. Francis, to effect an agreement between them by means of a mariiage between the eldest daughter of Count Aranda and the eldest son of the Count of Ribagorce. 1 he latter refuses, and is banished the realm. As for the son of the Fortunate Infante, this must be Don Alfonso of Aragon, Count of Ribagorce, Duke of Segovia, sole male heir of the house of Castile, proposed in 1506 as husband for Jane the Crazed. His father, Henry of Aragon, Duke of Segovia, was surnamed the Injante of Fortune, because he was born in 1445. after the death of his father. " Such are the events which the Queen of Navarre has mixed up with a narrative in which she declares that she has changed names, places, «*5 SECOND DAY. EXT day, the party rose betimes, eager to return to the spot where they had had so much pleasure. Everyone had his tale ready, and was impatient to bring it forth. After having heard Madame Oisille’s reading and at¬ tended mass, dinner was the next affair, during which they also recalled to mind many a storv. After dinner they went to rest in their chambers, and at the appointed hour everyone repaired to the meadow, where it seemed that the weather and the day expressly favoured their design. After they were all seated on verdant couches prepared by nature’s own hands, Parlamente said, “Since I was the last speaker yesterday, it is for me to select the lady who shall begin this day’s proceedings. Those of yesterday having been opened by Madame Oisille, the sagest and eldest lady present, I give my vote to day to the youngest—I do not say to the most light-witted, for I am sure that if we all follow her example, the monks will not have to wait so long to say vespers as they did yesterday. I call upon you, Nomertide, but I beg you will not make us begin the day with tears.” “ There was no need to give me that caution,” said Nomerfide ; ** for one of our companions has made me choose a tale, which I have set so fast in my head that I could not tell any other; and it it engenders sadness in you, why then your nature must be very melancholy.” NOVEL XI. /vii odorous adventure which befell Madame de Roncex at the Franciscan Monastery of Thouars. N the household of Madame de La Tremouille there was a lady named Roncex, who one day, when her mistress had gone to the Cordeliers, had a pressing need to go to the place to which she could not send her waiting-woman. She took with her a girl named La Mothe to keep her company, but from bashfulness and desire of secrecy left her in the chamber, and entered alone into a very dark privy, which was common to all the Cordeliers; and they had rendered such good account there of all their victuals that the whole place, the seat and the door, 76 The Ileptameron of the Queen of Navarre. was covered with must of Bacchus and Ceres, passed through the bellies of the Cordeliers. The poor woman, who was so hard pressed that she had scarcely time to tuck up her skirts to sit down, unluckily seated herself on the filthiest spot in the whole place, and there she stuck as if she had been glued to it, and her poor buttocks, garments, and feet were so bewrayed that she durst not step or turn any way for fear of making herself still worse. Thereupon she began to cry out, as loud as she could, “La Mothe, my dear, I am undone and dishonoured!” The poor girl, who had heard sundry tales of the wickedness of the Cordeliers, suspecting that some of them were hid there, and wanted to violate the lady, ran as fast as she could, saying to everyone she met, “ Come and help Madame de Roncex ; the Cordeliers want to ravish her in that privy.” They ran to the place with all speed, and found the poor dame De Roncex crying for help, desiring to have some woman who could clean her, and with her hinder parts all uncovered, for she was afraid to touch them with her garments lest she should befoul them. Rushing in at her cries, the gentlemen beheld that fine spectacle, and found no Cordelier molesting her, but only the ordure with which all her posteriors were glued. This did not pass without laughter on their part or great shame on hers ; for, instead of having women to clean her, she was waited on by men, who saw her naked in the worst condition in which a woman could show her¬ self. Thereupon she dropped her clothes, and so dirtied what was still clean, forgetting the filth she was in for the shame she felt at seeing men. When she was out of that nasty place, it was necessary to strip her stark naked, and change all her clothes before she left the monastery. She was very much disposed to resent the help which La Mothe had brought her, but under¬ standing that the poor girl believed her case was still worse, she forgot her anger and laughed like the rest. Methinks, ladies, this story has been neither long nor melan¬ choly, and that you have had from me what you expected. The company laughed heartily at her story, and Oisille said to her, “ Though the tale is nasty and dirty, we cannot object to it, knowing the persons to whom it happened. Well, I should have been very glad to see the faces worn by La Mothe and by her to whom she brought such good aid. But since you have ended so soon, give your voice to some one who does not think with such levity.” “ If you would have my fault repaired," replied Nomerfide, Novel ii.] Seco?idDay. 77 “ I give my voice to Dagoucin, who is so discreet that for his life he would not utter a folly.” Dagoucin thanked her for the favourable opinion she enter¬ tained of his good sense, and said, “ The story I propose to relate will serve to show how love infatuates the greatest and worthiest hearts, and how difficult it is to overcome wickedness by dint of kindness.” [The preceding novel and epilogue, which are found in all the manuscripts consulted by the Bibliophiles Fran pais, are the nineteenth of the edition of 15^8. They are suppressed in that of 1559, and in all the subsequent editions* rveept that of 1853, and the following substituted for them.] Facetious Sayings of a Cordelier in his Sermons. EAR the town of Bler£, in Touraine, there is a village named Martin le Beau, where a Cordelier of Tours was called on to preach the Advent and Lent sermons, This Cordelier, who had more gabble than learning, finding himself sometimes short of matter, would contrive to eke out his hour by telling tales, which were not altogether disagreeable to the good villagers. Preaching on Holy Thursday, on the Pascal Lamb, when he had to state that it was eaten by night, seeing among the congregation some handsome young ladies newly arrived from Amboise with the intention of spending Easter at the village, he wished to surpass himself, and asked all the women if they knew what it was to eat raw meat at night. “ If you don’t, I will fell you, ladies,” said he. The young men of Amboise, who had come, some with their wives, others with their sisters and nieces, and who were not acquainted with the pil¬ grim’s humour, began to be scandalised; but after having heard him further, instead of being shocked, they laughed, especially when he told them that to eat the Pascal Lamb it was necessary to have one’s loins girt, one’s feet in one’s shoes, and a hand on one’s staff. The Cordelier, seeing them laugh, and guessing why, immediately corrected himself. “Well, then, shoes on one’s feet, and one’s staff in his hand,” said he. “Buttered bread, and bread buttered—is it not all one ? ” How this was received I leave you to guess. The Cordelier, perceiving that his hour was nearly out, made new efforts to divert the ladies, and gave them reason to be pleased with him. “ By-and-by, ladies,” he said to them, “when you are chatting with your gossips, you will ask them, * Who is this master friar who speaks so boldly ? He is a jovial companion, I warrant.’ I tell you ladies, be not astonished —-no, be not astonished if I speak boldly, for I am of Anjou, at 78 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre . your service.” So saying he ended his sermon, leaving his audience more disposed to laugh at his absurdities than to weep over the Passion of our Lord, the commemoration of which they were then celebrating. His other sermons during the holidays were pretty much of the like efficacy. You know that the brethren of that order do not forget to go about making their collections to get them their Easter eggs, as they say. Not only have they no lack of these, but people give them besides many other things, such as linen, yarn, chitterlings, hams, chines, and so forth. On Easter Tues¬ day, when he was making his exhortations to charity, of which people of his sort are no niggards, he said, “ I am bound, ladies, to thank you for the charities you have bestowed on our poor convent, but I cannot help remarking to you that you have not duly considered our wants. You have given us, for the most part, nothing but chitterlings, of which, thanks be to God, we have no scarcity, the convent being choke-full of them. What shall we do, then, with such lots of chitterlings ? Do you know what we shall do with them ? It is my advice, ladies, that you mix your hams with our chitterlings, and you will make a fine alms.” Then, continuing his sermon, he contrived to introduce the subject of scandal. After having expatiated upon it and adduced some examples, he cried out, with warmth, “I am surprised, ladies and gentlemen of St. Martin, that you are scandalised at a thing that is less than nothing, and that you make a talk of me everywhere without reason, saying, ‘Who would have thought it of the father, that he should have got his landlady’s daughter with child ? ’ That is a thing to be astonished about, truly. A monk has got a girl with child. What a wonder! But hark you, fair ladies, would you not have reason to be much more surprised if the girl had got the monk with child ?” Such, ladies, were the precious viands with which this good shepherd fed the Lord’s flock. So shameless was he, that after the commission of his sin, he had the impudence to speak of it in the pulpit, where nothing should be uttered but what is edify¬ ing to one’s neighbour, and tends, in the first place, to the glory of God. “ That was what you may call a master-monk,” said Saffre- dent. “ I should be at a loss to choose between him and Friar Angebaut, at whose door were laid all the facetious things that were said in good company.” Novel ii.] -- Second Day. 79 " I see no matter for laughter ir. all this,” said Oisille, “ nor is the circumstance of the time to the monk’s advantage.” “ You omit to say, madam,” observed Nomerfide, ** that a. that time, although the thing happened not very long ago, your honest vilagers, nay, most of the people even of the good towns, who think themselves cleverer than the others, had more regard for such preachers than for those who preached to them the holy Gospel purely and simply.” “ Be that as it may,” said Hircan, “ he was not far wrong in asking for hams in exchange for chitterlings, for there is a great deal more eating in them. If any devout dame had understood the thing amphibologically, as I believe the monk intended, neither he nor his brethren would have been badly off, any more than the young* wench who had her bag full.” '• What effrontery !” exclaimed Oisille, “ to pervert the sense of the text according to his caprice, thinking he had to do with people as brutalised as himself, and impudently endeavouring to corrupt silly women, in order to teach them to eat raw meat at night.” “ Ay,” said Simontault, “but then he had before him those young tripesellers of Amboise, in whose tub he would fain have washed his-Shall I say what ? No, you understand me. He would gladly have given them a taste of it. not roasted, but all stirring and frisking to give them the more pleasure.” “Gently, gently, Seigneur Simontault,” said Parlamente; “you forget yourself. Where is your usual modesty, of which you can make such good use at need ?” “True, madam, but the foul-mouthed monk made me equivo¬ cate. To return to our first proceedings. I beg that Nomerfide, who is the cause of my error, will give her voice to some one who will make us forget our common fault.” “ Since you will have it that I am a sharer in the fault,” said Nomerfide, “I will choose one who will set all right again ; and that is Dagoucin, who is so well behaved that he would rather die than say anything improper.” Dagoucin thanked her for her good opinion. “The story I am going to relate,” he said, “ is calculated to show you how love infatuates the greatest and the best, and how difficult it is tc overcome wickedness Yy dint of kindness.” 8 c The Heptameroi* uj the Queen of Afavarrt. NOVEL XII. Incontinence and tyranny of a duke of Florence—Just punishment of his wickedness. T Florence there lived, about ten years ago, a duke of the house of Medicis, who had married Madame Margaret, natural daughter of the Emperor Charles the Fifth. As the princess was still very young, and the duke would not sleep with her until she was of more mature age, he treated her very tenderly ; and to spare her he amused himself with some other ladies of the city, whom he used to visit by night whilst his wife slept. Among others, he took a fancy to a lady as beautiful as she was good and virtuous, the sister of a gentleman whom the duke loved as himself, and to whom he conceded such authority that he was obeyed like the du^e himself. The latter had no secrets which he did not com¬ municate to him, so that, in a manner, he might be called his second self. The duke, knowing that the gentleman’s sister was a lady of the highest virtue, durst not at first speak to her of his passion ; but after having tried every other expedient, he at last addressed his favourite on the subject. “ If there was anything in the world, my friend,” he said, “ which I would not do for you, I should be afraid to tell you what is in my thoughts, and still more to ask your aid. But I have so much friendship for you, that if I had a wife, a mother, or a daughter who could save your life, you may be assured you should not die. I am persuaded that yuu love me as much as I love you. If I, who am your master, have such an affection for you, that which you should have for me should be no less. I have a secret, then, to tell you. Through trying to conceal it, I have fallen into the state in which you now see me, from which I have no hope of escaping but by death, or by the service you may render me, if you will.” Touched by these representations on the part of his master, and seeing his face bathed in tears, the gentleman felt so much pity that he said, “ I am your creature, my lord ; it is from you I hold all my wealth and honours, and you may speak to me as to your own soul, being sure that whatever I can do is at your command.” The duke then declared the passion with which he was pos¬ sessed for his favourite’s sister, and told him it was impossible he should live long unless the brother enabled him to enjoy her; for he was quite sure that prayers or presents would be of nc Novel 12.] ^ Second Day . 81 avail with her. “ If, then,” said the duke, in conclusion, 'you ^ love my life as much as I love yours, find means to secure me a bliss I can never obtain but through your aid.” The gentleman, who loved his sister and the honour of his house more than his master’s pleasure, remonstrated with him, and implored him not to reduce him to the horrible necessity of soliciting the dishonour of his family, protesting there was nothing he would not do for his master, but that his honour would not suffer him to perform such a service as that. The duke, inflamed with intolerable anger, bit his nails, and replied, furiously, “Since I find no friendship in you, I know what I have to do.” The gentleman, who knew his master’s cruelty, was alarmed, and said, “ Since you absolutely insist on it, my lord, I will speak to her.” “ If you set store by my life, I will set store by yours,” were the duke’s last words as he went away. The gentleman knew well what this meant, and remained a day or two without seeing the duke, pondering over the means of extricating himself from so bad a dilemma. On the one hand, he considered the obligations he was under to his master, the wealth and honours he had received from him ; on the other hand, he thought of the honour of his house, and the virtue and chastity of his sister. He knew very well that she never would consent to such infamy, unless she were overcome by fraud or violence, which he could not think of employing, considering the shame it would bring upon him and her. In fine, he made up his mind that he would rather die than behave so vilely to his sister, who was one of the best women in Italy ; and he resolved to deliver his country from a tyrant who was bent on disgracing his house ; for he saw clearly that the only means of securing the lives of himself and his kindred was to get rid of the duke. Re¬ solved, then, without speaking to his sister, to save his life and prevent his shame by one and the same deed, he went after two da\s to the duke, and told him that he had laboured so hard with his sister that at last, with infinite difficulty, he had brought her to consent to the duke’s wishes, but on condition that the affair should be kept secret, and that no one should know of it but they three. As people readily believe what they desire, the duke put implicit faith in the brother’s words. He embraced him, promised him everything he could ask, urged him to hasten the fulfilment of his good tidings, and appointed a time with .him for that purpose. When the exulting duke saw the approach of the night he so longed for, in which he expected to conquer her whom he haa G 82 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. 0 thought invincible, he retired early with his favourite, and did not forget to dress and perfume himself with his best care. When all was still, the gentleman conducted him to his sister’s abode, and showed him into a magnificent chamber, where he undressed him, put him to bed, and left him, saying, “ I am going, my lord, to bring you one who will not enter this room without blushing ; but I hope that before day dawns she will be assured of you.” He then went away to his own room, where he found one trusty servant awaiting him by his orders. “ Is thy heart bold enough,” he said to him, “to follow me to a place where I have to revenge myself on the greatest of my enemies ?” “ Yes, my lord,” re¬ plied the man, who knew nothing of the matter in hand, “though it were upon the duke himself.” Thereupon, without giving the man time for reflection, the gentleman hurried him away so abruptly that he had not time to take any other weapon than a poniard wiih which he was already armed. The duke, hearing his favourite’s footsteps at the door, believed that he was bringing him the object of his passion, and threw open the curtains to behold and welcome her ; but instead of her he saw her brother advance upon him with a drawn sword. Un¬ armed, but undaunted, the duke started up, seized the gentleman round the middle, saying, “ Is this the way you keep your word ?” and lor want of other weapons used his nails and his teeth, bit his antagonist in the thumb, and defended himself so well that they fell together beside the bed. The gentleman, not feeling confident in his own strength, called his man, who, seeing his master and the duke grappling each other so desperately that he could not well distinguish which was which in that dark spot, dragged them both out by the heels into the middle of the room, and then set about cutting the duke’s throat with his poniard. The duke defended himself to the last, until he was exhausted by loss of blood. Then the gentleman and his man laid him on the bed, finished him with their poniards, drew the curtains upon the body, and left the room, locking the door behind them. Having slain his enemy and liberated the republic, the gentle¬ man thought that his exploit would not be complete unless he did the same by five or six near relations of the duke. To this end he ordered his man to go and fetch them one by one ; but the servant, who had neither vigour nor boldness enough, re¬ plied, “ It strikes me, my lord, that you have done enough for the present, and that you had much better think of saving your Novel 12.] Second Day . 83 own life than of taking that of others. If every one of them should take as long to despatch as the duke, it would be daylight before we had finished, even should they be unarmed.” As the guilty are easily susceptible of the contagion of fear, tne gentle¬ man took his servant s advice, and went with him alone to a bishop, whose place it was to have the gates opened and to give orders to the postmasters. The gentleman told the prelate he had just received intelligence that one of his brothers was at the point of death ; that the duke had given him Pave to go to him, and therefore he begged his lordship would give him an order to the postmasters for two good horses, and to the gate-keepers to let him pass. The bishop, to whom his request seemed almost equivalent to a command from the duke his master, gave him a note, by means of which he at once obtained what he required ; but instead of goingtosee his brother, he made straight for Venice, where he had himsell cured of the bites inflicted by the duke, and then passed over into Turkey. Next morning the duke’s servants, not seeing or hearing any¬ thing of him, concluded that he had gone to see some lady ; but at last becoming uneasy at his long absence, they began to look for him in all directions. The poor duchess, who was brgin- ning to love him greatly, was extremely distressed at hearing that he could not be found. The favourite also not making his appearance, some of the servants went for him to his house. They saw blood at his chamber door, but no one could give any account of him. The trace of blood led the duke’s servants tc the chamber where he lay, and finding the door locked, they broke it open at once, saw the floor covered with blood, drew the curtains, and beheld the duke stark dead on the bed. Picture to yourselves the affliction of these servants, as they carried the body to the palace. The bishop arrived there at the same time, and told them how the gentleman had fled in the night under pretence of going to see his brother. This was enough to lead everyone to the conclusion that it was he who had done the deed. It clearly appeared that his sister had known nothing about it. Though she was surprised at so un¬ expected an event, she loved her brother for it, since, without regard to his own life, he had delivered her from a tyrant who was bent on the ruin of her honour. She continued always to lead the same virtuous life; and though she was reduced to Doverty by tne confiscation of ail the family property, her sister and she found husbands as honourable and wealthy as any in 84 The Heptcimcron of the Queen op Navarre. Italy. Both of them have always lived subsequently in tne best repute.* Here is a fact, ladies, which should make you beware of that little god, who delights in tormenting princes and private per¬ sons, the strong and the weak, and who so infatuates them that they forget God and their conscience, and even the care of their own lives. Princes and those who are in authority ought to fear to outrage their inferiors. There is no man so insignificant but he can do mischief when it is God’s will to inflict yengeance on the sinner, nor any so great that he can do hurt to one whom God chooses to protect. This story was listened to by the whole company, but with very different sentiments. Some maintained that the gentleman had done well in securing his own life and his sister’s honour, and delivering his country from such a tyrant. Others, on the contrary, said that it was enormously ungrateful to take the life of a man who had loaded him with wealth and honours. The ladies said he was a good brother and a virtuous citizen ; the gentlemen, on the contrary, maintained that he was a traitor and a bad servant. It was amusing to hear the opinions and argu¬ ments delivered on the one side and on the other : but the ladies, as usual, spoke more from passion than from judgment, saying that the duke deserved death, and that blessed was the brother who had slain him. “ Ladies,” said Dagoucin, who saw what a lively controversy he had excited, “ pray do not put yourselves in a passion about a thing that is past and gone ; only take care that your beauties do not occasion murders more cruel than that which I have related.” “ ‘The Fair Lady without Compassion,’ ”f said Parlamente, “ has taught us to say that people hardly ever die of so agree¬ able a malady.” “Would to God, madam,” rejoined Dagoucin, “that every lady here knew how false is this notion. They would not then, I imagine, desire the reputation of being pitiless, or like to re- * The historical fact related in this novel is one of the most celebrated in the annals of Florence. The duke was Alessandro, natural son of Lorenzo de Medicis, and the murderer was his cousin, Lorenzo de Medici. Historians state that the latter decoyed the duke to his house under pretence of affording him an interview with a Florentine lady, but they do not mention that she was Lorenzo's sister. f l.a Belle Datne szns Merci is the title of a poem by Alain Chartier, in the form of a long metaphysical dialogue between a lady and her lover. Novel 12. | Second Day. Sj semble that incredulous fair one who let a good servant die for want of responding favourably to his passion.” “So, then,” said Parlamente, “to save the life of a man who says he loves us, you would have us violate our honour and our conscience ?” “ I do not say that,” replied Dagoucin, “ for he who loves thoroughly would be more afraid of hurting the honour of his mistress than she herself. Hence it seems to me that a gracious response, such as is called for by a seemly and genuine love, would only give more lustre to the honour and conscience of a lady. I say a seemly love, for I maintain that those who love otherwise do not love perfectly.” “That is always the upshot of your orisons,” said Ennasuite. “You begin with honour, and end with its opposite. If all the gentlemen present will tell us the truth of the matter, I will believe them on their oaths.” Htrcan swore that he had never loved anyone but his wife, and that it was far from his wish to make her offend God. Simontault spoke to the same effect, and added that he had often wished that all women were ill-natured except his own wife. “ You deserve that yours should be so,” retorted Geburon ; “ but for my part, I can safely swear that I loved a woman so much that l would rather have died than have made her do anything capable of diminishing the esteem in which I held her. My love was so founded upon her virtues, that I would not have seen a stain upon them for the most precious favours I could have obtained from her.” “ I thought, Geburon,” said Safifredent, laughing, “ that the love you have for your wife, and the good sense with which nature has endowed you, would have saved you from playing the lover elsewhere ; but I see I was mistaken, for you use the very phrases which we are accustomed to employ to dupe the most subtle of dames, and under favour of which we obtain a hearing from the most discreet. Where is the lady, indeed, who will not lend us an ear when we begin our discourse with honour and virtue ? But if we were all to lay open our hearts before them just as they are, there is many a man well received by the ladies, whom then they would not condescend so much as to look upon. We hide our devil under the form of the hand¬ somest angel we can find, and so receive many a favour before we are found out. Perhaps, even, we lead the ladies so far, that thinking to go straight to virtue, they have neither time nor oppor¬ tunity to retreat when they find themselves face to face with vice.” 86 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. ** I thought you quite a different sort of man,” said Geburon, and imagined virtue was more agreeable to you than pleasure.” “ Why,” said Saffredent, “ is there any greater virtue than to love in the way God has ordained ? To me it seems much better to love a woman as a woman, than to make her one’s idol, as many do. For my part, I am convinced that it is better tc use than to abuse.” All the ladies coincided in opinion with Geburon, and bade Saffredent hold his tongue. “ Very well,” said he, “ I am con¬ tent to say no more on the subject, for I have fared so badly with regard to it that I don’t want to have any more to do with it.” “You may thank your own bad thoughts for having fared badly,” said Longarine ; “ for where is the woman with a proper sense of decorum who would have you for a lover after what you have just said ? ” “ There are those,” he retorted, “who did not think me in¬ tolerable, and who would not have exchanged their own sense of decorum for yours. But let us say no more about it, in order that my anger may shock no one, and may not shock myself. Let us think to whom Dagoucin will give his voice.” “ I give it to Parlamente,” he replied at once, “ persuaded as I am that she must know better than anyone what is honourable and perfect friendship.” “ Since you elect me to tell a story,” said Parlamente, “ I will relate to you one which occurred to a lady who had always been one of my good friends, and who has never concealed anything from me.” NOVEL XIII. The captain of a galley, under pretence of devotion, fell in love with a demoiselle. What happened in consequence. HERE was in the household of the regent, mother of King Francis, a very devout lady, married to a gentle¬ man of the same character. Though her husband was old, and she young and fair, nevertheless she served him and loved him as though he had been the handsomest young mar in the world. To leave him no cause of uneasiness, she made il her care to live with him like a woman of his own age, shunning all company, all magnificence in dress, all dances and diver¬ sions such as women are usually fond of, and making the service of God her sole pleasure and recreation. One day her husband told her that from his youth upwards he had longed to make the Novel 13.] Second Day. 87 journey to Jerusalem, and he asked her what she thought of the matter. She, whose only thought was how to please him, replied: “ Since God has deprived us of children, my dear, and has given us wealth enough, I should be strongly inclined to spend a part of it in performing that sacred journey; for, whether you go to Jerusalem or elsewhere, I am resolved to accompany, and never forsake you.” The good man was so pleased with this reply that he fancied himself already standing on Mount Calvary. Just at this time there arrived at court a gentleman who had served long against the Turks, and who was come to obtain the king’s approval for a projected enterprise against a fortress be¬ longing to the Ottomans, the success of which was likely to be very advantageous to Christendom. The old devotee talked with him about his expedition, and learning from him that he was resolved upon it, asked him if he would be disposed, after it was accomplished, to make another journey to Jerusalem, which him¬ self and his wife had a great desire to see. The captain, highly approving of so good a design, promised to accompany him, and to keep the thing secret. The old gentleman was impatient to see his wife, to tell her what he had done. As she had scarcely less longing than her husband to perform the journey, she talked of it often to the captain, who, paying more attention to her per¬ son than to her words, become so much in love with her that, in talking to her of the voyages he had made by sea, he often con¬ founded the port of Marseilles with the Archipelago, and said horse when he meant to say ship, so much was he beside himself. He found her, however, of so singular a character that he durst not let her see that he loved her, much less tell her so in words. The tire of his passion became so violent by dint of his conceal¬ ing it that it often made him ill. The demoiselle, who regarded him as her guide, took as much care of him as of the cross, and sent to inquire after him so often that the interest she evinced for him cured the patient without the aid of physic. Several persons, who knew that the captain had always had a better reputation for valour than for devotion, were surprised at the great intercourse between him and this lady ; and seeing that he had changed from white to black, that he frequented the churches, attended sermons, and performed all the devoirs of a devo ee, they doubted not that he did so to ingra¬ tiate himself with the lady, and could not even help hinting as much to him. The captain, fearing lest this should come to the ears of the lady, withdrew from society, and told her husband and her, that, being on the point of receiving his orders and quit- 88 The Hepta7ncron of the Queen of Navarre. ting the court, he had many things to say to them, but hat, foi the greater svcrecy, he would only confer with them in private, to which end he begged they would send for him when they had both retired for the night. This proposal being quite to the old gentleman’s liking, he failed not to go to bed early every night and make his wife un¬ dress. -After everybody had gone to rest, he used to send for the captain to talk about the journey to Jerusalem, in the course of which the good man often fell asleep devoutly. On these occa¬ sions, the captain, seeing the old gentleman sleeping like the blessed, and himself seated in a chair at the bedside, close to her whom he thought the most charming woman in the world, felt his heart so hard pressed, between his fear and his desire to declare himself, that he often lost the use of his tongue. But that she might not perceive his perplexity, he launched out upon the holy places of Jerusalem, where are to be seen the me¬ morials of the great love which Jesus Christ had for us. What he said of that love was only uttered to conceal his own ; and while he expatiated upon it, he kept his eyes fixed on the lady, wept and sighed so a propos, that her heart was quite penetrated with piety. Believing from this outward appearace of devotion that he was quite i saint she begged him to tell her how he had lived, and how he had come to love God with such fervour? He told her he was a poor gentleman, who to acquire wealth and honours had forgotten his conscience, and married a lady who was too nearly related to him, one who was rich, but old and ugly, and whom he did not love at all ; that after having drawn all his wife’s money from her, he had gone to seek his fortune at sea, and had sped so well that he had become the captain of a galley ; but that since he had had the honour of her acquaint¬ ance, her holy converse and her good example had so changed him that he was reso!/ed, if by God’s grace he came back alive from his expedition, to take her and her husband to Jerusalem, there to do penance for his great sins which he had forsaken, after which it would only remain for him to make reparation to his wife, to whom he hoped soon to be reconciled. This account which he gave of himself was very pleasing to the pious lady, who congratulated herself much on having converted a sinner of such magnitude. These nocturnal confabulations continued every night until the departure of the captain, who never ventured to declare him¬ self. Only he made the fair devotee a present of a crucifix from Our Lady of Pity, beseeching her, whenever she looked upon it Novel 13,] Second Z)ay. 89 to think of him. The time of his departu'e being come, and having taken leave of the husband, who was falling asleep, he had last of all to take leave of the fair one, in whose eyes he saw tears, drawn forth by the kind feeling she entertained for him. His impassioned heart so thrilled at the sight that he almost fainted as he bade her farewell, and burst into such an extraor¬ dinary perspiration that he wept, so to speak, not only with his eyes, but with every part of his body. Thus he departed without any explanation, and the lady, who never before had seen such tokens of regret, was quite astonished at his emotion. She had not the less good opinion of him for all that, and her prayers ac¬ companied him on his way. A month afterwards, as she was re¬ turning to her own house one day, she was met by a gentleman, who delivered a letter to her from the captain, begging her to read it in private, and assuring her that he had seen him embark, fully resolved to perform an expedition which should be pleasing to the king and advantageous to the faith. At the same time the gentle¬ man mentioned that he was going back to Marseilles to look after the captain’s affairs. The lady went to the window and opened the letter, which consisted of two sheets of paper written all over. It was an elaborate declaration of the feelings which the writer had so carefully concealed, and in it was enclosed a large hand¬ some diamond, mounted in a black enamelled ring, which the lady was supplicated to put on her fair finger. Having read the enormously long ietter from beginningto end, the lady was the more astonished as she had never suspected the captain’s love for her. The diamond caused her much perplexity, for she knew not what to do with it. After thinking over the matter all that day, and dreaming of it at night, she rejoiced that she could abstain from replying for want of a messenger, saying to herself that as the bearer of the letter had taken such pains on the writer’s behalf, she ought to spare him the mortification of such a reply as she had resolved to give him, but which she now thought fit to reserve till the captain’s return. The diamond was still a cause of much embarrassment to her, as it was not her custom to adorn herself at anyone’s expense but her husband’s. At last her good sense suggested to her that she could not employ it better than for the relief of the captain’s conscience, and she instantly despatched it, by the hands of one of her servants, to the captain’s forlorn wife, to whom she wrote as follows, in the assumed character of a nun of Tarrascon :— 44 Madam, —Your husband passed this way a little before he The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. embarked. He confessed, and received his Creator like a good Christian, and declared to me a fact which lay heavy on his con¬ science, namely, his regret for not having loved you as he ought. He begged me at his departure to send you this letter with this diamond, which he begs you to keep for his sake, assuring you that if God brings him back safe and sound, he will make amends for the past by all the love that you can desire. This diamond will be for you a pledge of his word. I ask of you on his behalf the aid of your good prayers ; for all my life he shall have part in mine.” When the captain’s wife received this letter and the diamond, it may well be imagined how she wept with joy and sorrow : joy at being loved by her husband, and sorrow at being deprived of his presence. She kissed the ring a thousand times, washing it with her tears, and praised God for having restored her husband’s affection to her at the close of her days, and when she least ex¬ pected it. The nun who, under God, had wrought such a blessing for her was not forgotten in her grateful acknowledgments. She replied to her by the same man, who nr.ade his mistress laugh heartily when he told her how the captain’s wife had received her communication. The fair devotee congratulated herself on having got rid of the diamond in so pious a manner, and was as much rejoiced at having re-established the good understanding between the husband and wife as though she had gained a kingdom. Some time afterwards news arrived of the defeat and death of the poor captain. He had been abandoned by those who ought to have supported him, and the Rhodians, who had most interest in concealing his design, were the first to make it known. Nearly eighty men who had made a descent on the land were cut off almost to a man. Among them there was a gentleman named Jean, and a converted Turk, for whom the fair devotee had been godmother, and whom she had given to the captain to accompany him on his expedition. Jean fell along with the captain; the Turk, wounded in fifteen places with arrows, escaped by swimming to the French vessels, and it was from his report that it was known exactly how the thing had happened. A certain gentleman whom the captain believed to be his friend, and whose interests he had advanced with the king and the |reatest personages in France, after the captain had landed stood off shore with his vessels. The captain, seeing that his scheme was discovered, and that he was opposed by four thousand Novel 13.] Second Day. 91 Turks, set about retreating. But the gentleman in whom he put such confidence, considering that after his death he himself would have the command and the profit of that great fleet, represented to the officers that it was not right to risk the king’s vessels and the lives of so many brave men on board them in order to save eighty or a hundred persons. The officers, as spiritless as himself, coincided with him in opinion. T1 e captain, seeing that the more he called to them the more they drew off from the shore, faced round against his foes, and though he was up to his knees in sand, he defended himself so valiantly that it almost seemed as if his single arm would defeat the assailants. But at last he received so many wounds from the arrows of those who durst not approach him within less than bowshot distance, that he began to grow weak from loss of blood. The Turks, seeing that the Christians were nearly spent, fell upon them with the scimi¬ tars ; but notwithstanding the overwhelming numbers of the foe, the Christians defended themselves as long as they had breath. The captain called to him the gentleman named Jean, and the Turk whom the devotee had given him, and planting his sword in the ground, kissed and embraced the cross on his knees, say¬ ing, “ Lord, receive the soul of him who has not spared his life for the exaltation of thy name.” Jean, seeing him droop as he uttered these words, took him and his sword in his arms, wishing to succour him ; but a Turk cut both his thighs to the bone from behind. “Come, captain,” he cried, as he received the stroke, “let us go to Paradise to see him for whose sake we die.” As he had been united with the captain in life, so was he also in death. The Turk, seeing that he could be of no use to either of them, and that he was pierced with arrows, made his way to the vessels by swimming : and though he was the only one wiio had escaped out of eighty, the perfidious commander would not receive him. But being a good swimmer, he went from vessel to vessel, till at last he was taken on board a small one, where in the course of a little time he was cured of his wounds. It was through this foreigner that the truth became known respecting this event, glorious to the captain, and shameful to his companion in arms. The king, and all good people who heard of it, deemed the act of the latter so black towards God and man that there was nc punishment too bad for him. But on his return he told so many lies, and made so many presents, that not only did his crime remain unpunished, but he succeeded to the post of him whose lacquey he was not worthy to be. When the sad news reached the court, the regent-mother, who highly 92 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre* esteemed the captain, greatly mourned his loss. So did the king and all who had known him. When she, whom he had so pas¬ sionately loved, heard of his strange, piteous, and Christian end, the obduracy she had felt towards him melted into tears, and her lamentations were shared by her husband, whose pilgrim hopes were frustrated by the catastrophe. I must not forget to mention that a demoiseile belonging to this lady, who loved the gentleman Jean better than herself, told her mistress, the very day the captain and he were killed, that she had seen in a dream him whom she loved so much, that he had come to her in white raiment to bid her farewell, and told her that he was going to Paradise with his captain. But when she learned that her dream was true, she made such piteous moans that her mistress had enough to do to console her. Some time after, the court went into Normandy, of which province the cap¬ tain was a native, and his wife failed not to come and pay her respects to the regent-mother, intending to be introduced by the lady with whom her husband had been so much in love. Whilst waiting for the hour when she could have audience, the two ladies entered a church, where the widow began to laud her husband and make lamentations over his death. “ I am, madam, the most unhappy of women,” she said. “God has taken my husband from me at the time when he loved me more than ever he had done.” So saying, she showed the diamond she wore on her finger as a pledge of his perfect affection. This was not said without a world of tears ; and the other lady, who saw that her good-natured fraud had produced so excellent an effect, was so strongly tempted to laugh, in spite of her grief, that, not being able to present the widow to the regent, she handed her over to another, and retired into a chapel, where she had her laugh out.* Methinks, ladies, that those of our sex to whom presents are made ought to be glad to employ them as usefully as did this good lady ; for they would find there is pleasure and joy in doing good. We must by no means accuse her of fraud, but # The incidents related in this novel appear to be real, but it is impossible to discover the names of the actors. M. Paul Lacroix supposes the hero of the novel to be a Baron de Malleville, Knight of Malta, who was killed at Beyrout in an expedition against the Turks, and whose death has been celebrated by Clement‘Marot. But the Bibliophiles Franfais remark that the conjecture is untenable, De Malleville being styled Parisien by the poet, whereas the captain was a Norman. He was a married man, too, which a Knight of Malta could not be. Nozel 13.] Second Day . 93 praise her good sense, which enabled her to extract good out of a bad thing. “ You mean to say, then,” said Nomerfide, “ that a fine diamond, worth two hundred crowns, is a bad thing? I assure you, if it had fallen into my hands, neither his wife nor his rela¬ tions would ever have set e)es on it. Nothing is more one’s own than a thing that is given. The captain was dead, no one knew anything of the matter, and she might well have abstained from making the poor old woman cry.” “ Good faith, you are right,” said Hircan, “ for there is many a woman who, to show that she is better than others, does acts contrary to her nature. In fact, do we not all know that nothing is more covetous than a woman ? Yet vanity often prevails with them over avarice, and makes them do things in which their hearts have no share. In my opinion, the lady who set so little store by the diamond did not deserve it.” “Gently, gently,” said Oisille; “ l think I know her, and I pray you not to condemn her unheard.” “ 1 do not condemn her, madam,” replied Hircan ; “but if the gentleman was so gallant a man as he has been represented to have been, it was a glorious thing for her to have a lover of such morit, and to wear his ring. But perhaps some one less worthy to be loved held her so fast by the finger that the ring could not be placed on it.” “Truly,” said Ennasuite, “she might fairly keep it, since no one knew anything about it.” “What!” exclaimed Geburon, “is everything allowable for those who love, provided nobody knows of it ?” “I have never,” said Satfredent, “seen anything punished as a crime except imprudence ; in fict, no murderer, robber, or adulterer, is ever punished by justice, or blamed amongst men, provided they are as cunning as they are wicked. But wickedness often blinds them so that they become witless. Thus it may be truly said that it is only fools who are punished, and not the vicious.” “You may say what you will,” said Oisille, “but it is for God to judge the heart of the lady. For my part, f see nothing in her conduct but what is comely and virtuous ; and to put an end to this dispute, I beg you, Parlamente, to call on some one to follow you.” “ I have great pleasure in calling on Simontault,” replied Parlamente, “and I am mistaken if, after these two sad novels, he will not give us one which will not make us weep.” 94 The Hep tamer on. of the Queen of Navarre. “That is almost as good as saying that I am a buffoon,” said Simontault. “ By way of revenge, I will let you see that there are women who make a show of being chaste with regard to certain people, or for a certain time ; but the end unmasks them, as you will see by this true story.” NOVEL XIV. Subtlety of a lover who, counterfeiting the real favourite, found means to recompense himself for his past troubles. T the time when the grand-master of Chaumont was governor of the duchy of Milan, there was a gentleman named Bonnivet, whose merits afterwards raised him to the rank of aJmiral of France. As his rare endow¬ ments made him liked by everybody, he was often a welcome guest at banquets and entertainments where ladies were present, and he was better received by them than ever was Frenchman before or since, both because he was a handsome, agreeable man, and spoke well, and because he had the reputation of being one of the ablest and most resolute soldiers of his time. One day during the carnival, when he was among the maskers, he danced with a lady, one of the handsomest and finest women in Milar. At every pause in the music, he failed not to entertain her with the language of love, in which no one was such an adept as he ; but the fair one, not thinking herself bound to respond to his most humble supplications, cut him short, told him flatly that she neither loved nor ever would love anyone but her husband, and that he had better address his tender speeches elsewhere. Nothing daunted by this reply, which he would by no means take for a refusal, Bonnivet stuck to the lady, and continued to press his suit with great vivacity until Mid-Lent. In spite of all bis endeavours, he found her steadfast in the resolution she had expressed, yet could not persuade himself that all this was real earnest, seeing the hard favour of the husband and the beauty of the wife. Convinced, then, that she practised dissimulation, he resolved to have recourse to the same art, and thenceforth desisted from his solicitations. He narrowly inquired into her conduct, and found that she loved an Italian gentleman of good parts and ac¬ complishments. Bonnivet gradually insinuated himself into the Italian’s acquaintance, and did so with such adroitness that the latter never suspected his motive, but conceived such an esteem Novel 14.] Second Day. 95 for him that next to h's fair one he was the person he loved best in the world. In order to extract the Italian gentleman’s secret from his breast, Bonnivet pretended to unlock his own, and told him that he loved a lady, naming one whom he scarcely ever thought of, at the same time begging him to keep the secret, that they might both have but one heart and one thought. The Italiaa, in return for the confidence which Bonnivet reposed in him, informed him, without reserve, of his passion for the lady before mentioned, on whom Bonnivet wanted to be revenged. The two friends met every day, and mutually recounted the good fortunes of the last four-and-twenty hours, with this difference, however, that one lied and the other told the truth. The Italian confessed that he had loved the lady in question for three years, without ever having obtained from her more than fair words and assurances that he was loved. Bonnivet gave him his very best advice ; the Italian acted upon it, and prospered by it so well that in a few days the lady consented to fulfil all his desires. Nothing remained now but to contrive means for their meeting ; but as Bonnivet was fertile in expedients, this was soon done. “ l am more obliged to you than to any man living,” said the Italian to him one evening before supper, “for, thanks to your excellent advice, I expect this night to enjoy what I have been longing for so many years.” “ Pray let me know the nature of your enterprise,” said Bon¬ nivet, ** so that if there is any risk in it, or it requires any artifice, I may aid and serve as your friend.” He then learned that the lady had an opportunity for leaving the great door of the house open, under the pretext of enabling one of her brothers, who was ill, to send out at any hour of the night for what he might require. The Italian was to enter the court-yard through that door, but was not to ascend the main staircase. He was to turn to the rightto a small staircase, go up it to the first gallery, on which the chambers of her father-in- law and her brother-in-law opened. He was to take the ihird door from the stairs, push it gently, and if he found it locked, he was to go away at once, for he might conclude for certain that her husband had returned, though he was not expected back for two days ; but if he found the door open, he was to come in softly, and lock the door behind him, being assured that there was no one in the room but herself. Above all, he was to wear felt shoes, that he might make no noise, and not leave home till two hours after midnight, for her brothers-in-law, who were much addicted to play, never went to bed till past one 96 The Heptameron of the Qiieen of Navarre . o’clock, Bonnivet congratulated his friend, wished him good speed, and bade him not hesitate to command his services it he could be of any use to him. The Italian thanked him, said that in affairs such as this one could not be too much alone, and went off to make his preparaiions. Bonnivet, on his side, did not sleep ; and seeing that the time was come to be revenged on the cruel fair one, he went to bed early, had his beard trimmed after the fashion of the Italian’s, and his hair cut so that she might not recognize the difference if she touched him. The felt shoes were not forgotten, nor any of the other things which the Italian was accustomed to wear As he was held in high consideration by the lady’s father-in-law, he did not hesitate to go early to the house, being prepared, in case anyone perceivtd him, to go straight to the chamber of the old gentleman, with whom he had some business. He reached the house at midnight ; met several people in it passing to and fro, but no one noticed him, and he made his way into the gallery. He touched the first two doors, and found them shut ; the third being open, he entered it, and locked it behind him. The chamber was all hung with white, and there was a bed with a drapery of the same colour, of such fine stuff, and so excellently wrought with the needle, that nothing could be handsomer. The lady was alone in bed, dressed in the most exquisite night-gear, as he could perceive (himself unseen) through a corner of the curtain, for there was a large wax candle burning in the room. For fear of being recognized, he first put out the light ; then he undressed and went to bed to her. The fair one, believing him to be the man she had loved so long, received him with all possible caresses ; but he, well knowing that he owed all this to her mistake, took good heed not to say one word to her, his only care being to revenge himself at the cost of her honour, and without being under any obligation to her; but she liked that sweet revenge so well, that she thought she had recompensed him for all his sufferings. This lasied till the clock struck one, when it was time to leave her. Then he asked her, in a very low whisper, if she was as well satisfied with him as he was with her. She, thinking still that he was her lover, replied that she was not only satisfied, but even surprised at the excess of his love, which had kept him an hour without speaking. Upon this he could restrain himself no longer. “ Now, madam,” he said, laughing outright, “ will you refuse me another time, as you have hitherto done ?** Novel 14.] Second Day. 97 The lady, recognizing him too late by his voice and his laugh¬ ter, was overwhelmed with shame and vexation, and called him a thousand times impostor, cheat, traitor, villain. She would have sprung out of bed to look for a knife with which to kill herself for having been so unhappy as to lose her honour for a man whom she did not love, and who, to be revenged upon her, might make known this affair to the whole world. But he held her fast, and vowed so hard that he would love her better than the other, and would faithfully keep her secret, that at last she believed him, and was pacified, lie then told her how he had contrived to find himself where he then was, and related to her all the pains he had taken to win her; whereupon she praised his ingenuity, and vowed that she would love him better than the other, who had not been able to keep her sec»et. She was now convinced, she said, how false were the prejudices that prevailed against the Ftench, who were better men, more persevering, and more dis¬ creet than the Italians ; and from that moment she would cast off the erroneous opinions of her countrypeople, and attach herself heartily to him. Only she entreated him that for some time he would forbear from showing himself at any entertainment or in any pNce where she might be, unless he were masked; for she knew well she should be so much ashamed, that her countenance would tell tales of her to everybody. Having promised this, he begged her in his turn to receive his friend well when he should come about two o’clock, and afterwards get rid of him by degrees. She made great difficulties about this, and only yielded at last under the strong coercion of her love for Bonnivet, who on taking leave of her behaved so much to her satisfaction that she would gladly have had him stay a little longer. Having risen and put on his clothes, he went out of the room, and left the door ajar, as he had found it. As it was near two o'clock, he withdrew into a corner near the head of the stairs, lest he should meet the Italian, and soon afterwards saw him pass along the gallery and enter the fair one’s chamber. Bon¬ nivet then went home to rest after the fatigues of the night, and remained in bed till nine next morning. The Italian failed not to come to him when he was getting up, and gave him an account of his adventure, which had not turned out quite so agreeably as he had expected ; for, said he, “ I found the lady out of bed in her dressing-gown, and in a high fever, her pulse beating vio¬ lently, her face all on fire, and such a great perspiration breaking out upon her, that she begged me to go away for fear she should H 9 S The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre ? be obliged to call her women to her. She was so ill, in short, that she had more need to think of death than of love, and to be put in mind of Heaven rather than of Cupid. She was very sorry, she told me, that 1 had run such a hazard for her sake, since she could not make me any requital in this world, being about, as she hoped, to find herself soon in a better one. I was so shocked at a mischance I so little anticipated, that my fire and my joy were changed to ice and sadness, and I instantly with¬ drew. At daylight this morning I sent to inquire for her, and have received word that she is extremely ill/’ As he delivered this sad report he wept so piteously that one would have thought his soul would have been washed out with his tears. Bonnivet, who was as much disposed to laugh as the other was to weep, consoled him as well as he could, and bade him recollect that things of long duration always seem to have an untoward beginning, and that love had caused this delay only to enhance his future enjoyment. Thereupon the two friends parted. The lady kept her bed for some days, and was no sooner out of it once more than she dismissed her first lover, alleging as her reason the fear of death in which she had been, and the terror of her conscience. She devoted herself wholly to Bonnivet, whose love lasted, as usual, about as long as the bloom and beauty of the flowers. It strikes me, ladies, that Bonnivet’s sly manoeuvres were a fair set-off against the hypocrisy of the Milanese lady, who, after playing the prude so long, at last let her lasciviousness be seen. “ You may say what you please of women,” said Ennasuite ; “ but Bonnivet’s conduct was anything but that of a man of honour. If a woman loves a man, is that any reason why another should have her by trickery?” “ Set it down for certain,” said Geburon, “that when that sort of goods is for sale, they are always carried off by the highest and last bidder. Do not imagine that those who serve ladies take such a world of trouble for their sakes. No, it is for them¬ selves, and for their own pleasure.” “Of that I entertain no manner of doubt,” said Longarine ; “ for, to be frank with you, all the lovers I have had have in¬ variably begun by talking of my interests, and telling me that they loved my life, my welfare, and my honour, and the upshot of it all has no less invariably been their own interest, their own pleasure, and their own vanity. So it is best to dismiss them before they have finished the first part of their sermon ; for when Novel 14.J Second Day 99 you come to the second, you cannot refuse them with so much credit to yourself, since declared vice is a thing to be rejected as a matter of course.” , “ According to your doctrine, then,” said Ennasuite, “ one ought to rebuff a man as soon as he opens his mouth, without knowing what he has to say.” “Not so,” replied Parlamente. “Every one knows that, at the outse M a woman ought not to let it appear that she under¬ stands, still less that she believes, the declaration made to her by a lover; but when he comes to strong oaths, it strikes me that it is more becoming in the lady to leave him in the middle of that fine road than to go with him all the way to the bottom.” “ Nay, but are we always to assume that they love us with a criminal passion ?” said Nomerfide. “ Is it not sinful to think ill of one’s neighbour?” “You may believe this or not, as you please,” said Oisille ; “ but there is so much reason for fearing that such is the case, that the moment you discover the least inkling of it, you cannot be too prompt in getting away from a fire which is too apt to burn up a heart before even it is once perceived.” “ That is a very hard law you lay down,” replied Hircan. “ If women, whom gentleness becomes so well, were all as rigorous as you would have them to be, we men would lay aside meekness and supplication, and have recourse to stratagem and violence.” “The best thing,” said Simontault, “is, that every one should follow the bent of his nature, and love or not, as he pleases, but always without dissimulation.” “ Would to God,” exclaimed Saffredent, “ that the observance of this law were as productive of honour as it would be of plea¬ sure !” But Dagoucin could not refrain from observing, “ Those who would rather die than make known their sentiments, could not endure your law.” 44 Die ! ” cried Hircan. “ The good knight is yet unborn who would die for any such cause. But let us say no more of what is impossible, and see to whom Simontault will give his voice.” “ To Longarine,” replied the gentleman thus appealed to ; “ for 1 observed her just now talking to herself. I suspect she was conning over some good thing, and she is not wont to disguise the truth either against man or woman.” “Since you think me such a friend to the truth,” said Longa¬ rine. “ I will tell you a story, which, though not quite so much 103 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre . to the credit of our sex as I could wish, will, nevertheless, show you that there are women who have as much spirit and as sound wits as men, and are not inferior to them in cunning - . If my story is somewhat long, I will endeavour to make you amends by a little gaiety.’' NOVEL XV. How a lady of the court, being neglected by her husband, whose love was bestowed elsewhere, retaliated upon him. HERE was at the court of King Francis the First a gentleman whom I could name if l would. He was poor, not having five hundred livres a year ; but the king prized him so highly for his great endowments, that he bestowed upon him a wife so wea'uhy that a great lord might have been satisfied with such a match. As his wife was st• 11 very young, the king requested one of the greatest ladies ol the court to take her into her household, which she did with great willingness. The gentleman was so well-bred and so good-looking, that he was greatly esteemed by all the court ladies, especially by one of them, whom the king loved, and who was neither so young nor so handsome as his wife. The gentle¬ man loved this lady so passionately, and made so little account of his wife, that he hardly shared her bed one night in the year; and to add to the poor creature’s mortification, he never spoke to her, or showed her any token of kindness ; a sort of treatment which she found it very hard to bear. Meanwhile he spent hei income for his own gratification, and allowed her so small a share of it, that she had not wherewithal to dress as became her quality. The lady with whom she resided often complained of this to the husband. “Your wife,” she said, “is hands mne, rich, and of a good family, yet you neglect her. Her extreme youth has en¬ abled her hitherto to endure this neglect ; but it is to be feared, that when she comes to maturer years, her mirror, and some one who is no friend to you, will so set before her eyes her beauty which you disdain, that resentment w 11 prompt her to do what she would not have dared to think of if you had treated her better." hut the gentleman, whose heart was set elsewhere, made light of these judicious remonstrances, and went on in his old ways. After two or three years, the young wife began to be one of the finest women in France. Her reputation was so great that it was commonly reported at court that she had not her equal. The more sensible she became that she was worthy to be loved, Novel 15.] Second Day . 101 the more poignantly she felt her husband’s contemptuous treat¬ ment, and but for the efforts of her mistress to console her, she would almost have sunk into hopeless melancholy. After having tried in vain every means to please her husband, she came to the conclusion that it was impossible he should so ill respond to the love she bore him unless he were captivated elsewhere. With this idea in her mind, she set to work so care¬ fully and so shrewdly that she found out where it was he was so occupied every night as to forget his conscience and his wife. When she had thus got certain evidence of the life he led, she fell into such deep despondency that she would wear nothing but black, and shunned all places of amusement. Her mistress per¬ ceived this, and omitted nothing by which she could hope to raise her out ot that gloomy mood ; but all her kind efforts were unavailing. Her husband was made acquainted with her con¬ dition, but instead of caring to relieve it, he only laughed at it. A great lord who was nearly related to the young wife’s pro¬ tectress, and who paid her frequent visits, having one day been informed of the husband’s hard-hearted behaviour, was so shocked at it, that he would fain try to console the wife ; but he was so charmed with her conversation and manners, and thought her so beautiful, that he had far more desire to make her love him than to talk to her of her husband, except it was to let her know how little cause she had to love such a man. As for the young lady herself, forsaken by him who ought to have loved and cherished her, and wooed by a lord who had everything to recommend him, she thought herself fortunate in having made such a conquest. Though she desired always to preserve her honour, nevertheless she took great pleasure in talking to him, and in seeing that she was loved, a thing whereof she had, so to speak, a famishing need. This tender friendship lasted some time, but at last the king became aware of it, and as he had a great regard for the husband, and would not have any one affront or annoy him, he begged the prince to discontinue his attentions, on pain of incurring the royal displeasure. The prince, who prized the king’s good graces above all the ladies in the world, promised to forego his designs, since such was the king’s wish, and to go that very evening and bid farewell to the lady. That evening the husband, being at his window, saw the prince come in and enter his wife’s chamber, which was beneath his own. The prince saw him too, but did not turn back for all that. On sa>ing farewell to her whom he was but beginning to love, the only reason he alleged for this change in him was the S03 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. king’s command. After many tears and lamentations, which lasted nearly until one o’clock in the morning, the lady said to him at parting, “ I thank God, my lord, for ihe grace he confers upon me in depriving me of your friendship, since it is so little and so weak that you take it up and lay it down at the com¬ mands of men. As for me, I did not consult either mistress, or husband, or myself, whether I should love you or not. Your engaging manners and your good looks won my heart; but since yours is less amorous than timid, you cannot love perfectly, and the friend who is not true and staunch to the uttermost is not the friend tor me to love thoroughly, as 1 had resolved to love you ; farewell, then, my lord, you whose timidity does not deserve a love so frank and so sincere as mine.” The prince went away with teais in his eyes, and looking back, he again saw the husband, w.io had watched him in and out. Next day the prince told him why he had gone to see his wife, and acquainted him with the commands laid upon him by the king, where-it the gentieman was greatly pleased, and gave much thanks to his sovereign. But seeing that his wile was becoming more beautiful every day, and he himself older and less good-looking, he began to change his part, and to assume that which he had long made his wife play ; for he sought her more than he had been wont, and took much more notice of her. But the more he sought her the more she shunned him, being very glad to pay him back a part of the distress he had caused her by his indifference. At the same time, not to miss the plea¬ sure which love was beginning to afford her, she cast her eyes on a ycung gentlc-man whose person and manners were so en¬ gaging, that he was a favourite with all the ladies of the court. By complaining to him of the unkind treatment she had ex¬ perienced, she inspired him with such pity for her, that he left nothing untried to console her. On her part, to indemnify her for the prince she had lost, she loved this new friend so heartily, that she forgot her past griefs, and thought only of the means of adroitly carrying on her intrigue ; and in this she succeeded so well, that her mistress never perceived it, for she took good care never to speak in her presence to her lover. When she had anything to say to him, she went to see certain ladies of the court. Among these was o le with whom her husband seemed to be in love. One dark night after supper she stole away alone, and entered the ladies’ room, where she found him whom she loved more than herself. She sat down beside him, and leaning over a Novel 15.] Second Day. 103 table they conversed together, whilst they pretended to be reading a book. Some one whom the husband had set on the watch came and told him whither his wife was gone ; and he, like a sensible man as he was, said nothing, but followed her quickly, entered the room, and saw her reading a book. Pretending not to see her, he went straight up to the ladies, who were at the other side of the room ; whilst so disconcerted was she at being found by him with a man to whom she had never spoken in hij presence, that she scrambled over a table, and ran away as if her husband was pursuing her sword in hand, and went to her mis¬ tress, who was just about to retire for the night. After her mistress was undressed and she had left the room, she met one of her own women coming to tell her that her husband wanted her. She said flatly she would not go to him, for he was so strange and harsh, that she was afraid he would do her some mischief. Nevertheless she went at last, for fear of worse. Her husband said not a word to her about what had occurred until they were in bed ; but then as she could not help crying, he asked her the cause of her tears? She cried, she said, because she was afraid he was angry at having found her reading with a gentleman. The husband replied that he had never forbidden her to speak to anybody ; but that he had been surprised at seeing her run away, as if she had done something wrong ; and that this had made him believe she loved the gentleman. The end of the matter was that he forbade her thenceforward to speak to any man, either in public or in pri¬ vate, assuring her that otherwise he would kill her without mercy. But to forbid things we like is the surest way to make us desire them more ardently, and it was not long before this poor woman had forgotten her husband’s threats and her own promises. The very same evening, having gone back to sleep with other demoiselles and her attendants, she sent to invite the gentleman to visit her at night. Her husband, whose jealousy kept him awake, and who had heard that the gentleman used to visit his wife at night, wrapped himself up in a cloak, took a valet de chambre with him, and went and knocked at his wife’s door. Up she got, and seeing her women all asleep, she went alone in her mantle and slippers to the door, never in the least suspecting who was there. Her inquiry, who was there ? was answered in her lover’s name; but for her better assurance, she half opened the wicket and said, “ If you are the person you say, give me your hand, and I shall know if you speak truly.” The moment she I X04 The Hepta??icron of the Queen of Navarre felt her husband’s hand, she recognised him, and slamming the wicket, cried out, “ Ha, monsieur ! it is your hand.” “Yes,” cried her husband, in a great passion, “it is the hand that will keep word with you. So fail not to come when 1 send for you.” With that he went away, and she returned to her chamber more dead than alive. “Get up, my friends,” she cried to her women ; “get up. You have slept too long for me. I thought to trick you, and I have been tricked myself,” and saying this, she fainted away. Her women, thus suddenly roused from their sleep, were astonished at her words, and still more when they saw her lying like a corpse, and they ran hurriedly to and fro in search of means to revive her. When she had recovered her speech, she said to them, “You see before you, my friends, the most wretched creature in the world.” Then she related to them her adventure, entreating them to stand by her, for she looked upon herself already as a dead woman. While her women were endeavouring to comfort her, a valet de chambre arrived with a message from her husband, ordering her to come to him instantly. Thereupon she embraced two of her women, and began to cry and shriek, beseeching them not to let her go, for she was sure she should never return. The valet de chambre, however, bade her not be afraid, for he would answer for it with his life that no harm should happen to her.” Seeing, then, that resistance was useless, she threw herself into the valet’s arms, saying, “Since it must be so, my friend, carry this wretched body to death ; ” and in fact he carried, rather than led her away, for she was almost in a swoon. The'moment she entered her husband's room, she fell on her knees, and said, “ Have pity on me, monsieur, I beseech you ; and I swear to you before God that I will tell you the whole truth.” “ That I am determined you shall,” replied the husband in a furious tone, and ordered every one to quit the room. As his wife had always seemed to him very devout, he thought she would not perjure herself if he made her swear on the cross. He therefore sent for a very handsome one he had, and when they were alone he made her swear on that cross that she would speak the truth as to such questions as he should put to her. By this time she had been able to rally her spirits, and having partly recovered from her first terror, she resolved to conceal nothing, but at the same time not to say anything which could compromise her lover. Her husband then put the questions he deemed necessary, and this was how she replied to them : Novel 15 ] Second Day. 105 “ I will not attempt to justify myself, monsieur, or to make little of the love 1 have entertained lor the gentleman who is the cause of your jealousy. Whatever I might say to that effect, you could not and ought not to believe it after what has occurred ; but 1 must tell you what has occasioned this love. Never wife so loved her husband as I loved you ; and but for your unkindness 1 should never have loved any one but you. You know that while 1 was yet a child, my parents wished to marry me to a man of higher birth than you ; but they could never make me consent to it from the moment I had spoken to you. 1 declared for you in spite of all they could say, and without caring for your poverty. You know in what manner you have treated me hitherto. This has caused me such grief and vexation, that but lor the support of the lady with whom you have placed me, I should have sunk under my despair. But at last, seeing myself full-grown, and esteemed fair by every one but you, I began to leel so acutely the wrong you did me, that the love 1 had for you turned into hatred, and the desire of pleasing you into that of revenging myself. While in this desperate mood, I had opportunity to see a prince, who, more obedient to the king than to love, forsook me at a time when I was beginning to derive consolation from an honourable love. After 1 had lost the prince, 1 found one who had no need to be at any pains to woo me, for his good looks, his deportment, and his excellent endowments, are enough to make him an object of interest to all women of sense. At my solicitation, and not at his own, he has loved me with such propriety that he has never asked of me anything inconsistent with my honour. Though the little cause 1 have to love you might induce me to mat*e light of my wedded faith, yet my love for God and my own honour have hitherto prevented me from doing any¬ thing I have need to confess, or which can make me apprehen¬ sive of infamy. I do not deny that, under pretence of going to say my prayers, I have retired as olten as I could into a gardcrobe to converse with him ; for I have never confided the conduct of this affair to any one. Nor yet do I deny, that being in such a private place, and safe from all suspicion, I have kis>ed him with more hearty good-will than I kiss you ; but .Hr y God never show me mercy if anything else ever happened in our tete-a-tetes % or if he ever asked me for more, or my own heart ever harboured a thought of gtanting anything besides ; for I was so h^ppy, that it seemed to me there could not be in the world a greater pleasure than that which I enjoyed. 106 The Heptame^on of the Queen of Navarre. “But you, sir, who are the sole cause of my misfortunes, would you desire to be revenged for conduct of which you have so long been setting me an example, with this difference, that what you have done you have done without honour and without conscience ? You know, and I know too, that she whom you love does not content herself with what God and reason com¬ mand. Though the laws of men condemn to infamy women who love any others than their husbands, the law of God, which is infinitely more venerable and more august, condemns men who love any other women than their own wives. If the faults we have both committed be weighed in the balance, you will be found more guilty than I. You are a wise man ; you have age and experience enough to know evil, and shun it; but I am young, and have no experience of the force and might of love. You have a wife who loves you, and to whom you are dearer than her own life ; and I have a husband who shuns me, hates me, and treats me with such harshness as he would not show to a servant woman. You love a woman in years, lean and lanky, and not so handsome as I am ; and I love a gentleman, younger than you, handsomer, and more agreeable. You love the wife of your best friend and the mistress of your sovereign, thus violating friendship and the respect you owe to both ; and I love a gentleman who has no other ties than his love for me. Judge now, sir, without partiality, which of us two is the more to be condemned or excused. I do not believe there exists a man of sense and knowledge of Ihe world who would not give his verdict against you, seeing that I am young and ignorant, despised by you and loved by the handsomest and best-bred gentleman in France, and that notwithstanding all that, l love him only because I despair of being loved by you.” Hearing such home truths as these delivered by the lips of a beautiful woman, with such grace and assurance that it was easy to see she did not think herself deserving of any punish¬ ment, the husband was so confounded that he knew not what to reply, except that a man’s honour and a woman’s were different things. Nevertheless, as she swore that nothing cri¬ minal had taken place between her and her lover, it was not his intention to love her less ; but he begged that she would offend no more, and that they should both forgive and forget the past She gave a promise to that effect, and, the reconciliation being effected, they went to bed together. Next morning an old demoiselle, who was greatly alarmed for her mistress’s life, came to her bedside and said, “ Well, madam Novel 15. j Second Day . 107 how do you find yourself ? ” “ There is not a better husband in the world than mine,” she replied, laughing, “ for he believed me An my oath.” In this way five or six days passed in apparent harmony between the married pair ; meanwhile, however, the husband, whose jealousy was not at all allayed, had his wife narrowly watched night and day ; but in spite of all this vigi¬ lance his spies could not hinder the lady from again entertaining her lover in a dark and very suspicious place. Nevertheless, she managed the matter so secretly, that no one could ever know* the truth for certain ; only some valet set a story afloat that he had found a gentleman and a lady in a stable which was under the chamber occupied by the mistress of the lady in question. Upon this doubtful evidence the husband’s jealousy became so increased that he resolved to have the gallant assas¬ sinated ; and he assembled for that purpose a great number of relations and friends, who were to dispatch him in case they met him. But it happened that one of the principal persons among the confederates was an intimate friend of the man whose death they plotted ; and instead of surprising him, he put him fully on his guard ; and the gentleman was such a general favourite, and always had such a good escort of friends, that he did not fear his enemy ; nor was he ever assailed. He thought it right, however, to have a conference with the lady under whose protection his fair one resided, and who had never heard a word of the whole affair, for he had never spoken with the young lady in her presence. Going to a church, where he knew that she was, he acquainted her with the husband’s jealousy, and the design he had formed against his life, and told her, that although he was innocent, he was resolved to go and travel in foreign countries, in order to extinguish the false report that was beginning to gathe~ strength. The princess was greatly astonished at hearing such news, and vowed that the husband did very wrong to suspect so virtuous a woman as his wife, and one in whom she had never seen anything but virtue and propriety. However, considering the husband’s influence, and in order to put an end to this scandalous report, she advised him to withdraw for some time, assuring him she would never believe any such idle fancies and suspicions. Furthermore, she advised him to speak to the husband before his departure. He took her advice, and meeting the husband in a gallery near the king’s chamber, he said to him with an assured countenance, and with the respect due to a man of his rank, “ I have all my life desired, monsieur, to render you service, io8 The Heptarneron of the Queen of Navarre. and I learn that in return you laid wait, yesterday evening, foi my life. I beg you to consider, monsieur, that although you have more power and authority than I, nevertheless I am a gentleman as well as you, and I should be very loth to part with my life for nothing. I entreat you also to consider that you have a virtuous wife, and if any one chooses to say the contrary, I will tell him that he foully lies. For my part, I am not conscious of having done anything that should give you cause for wishing me ill ; therefore, if it so please you, I will remain your obedient servant ; or if not, I am the king’s, and that is enough for me.” The husband replied, that true it was he had suspected him ; but he thought him so gallant a man that he would rather be his friend than his enemy ; and, taking leave of him, hat in hand, he embraced him as a friend. You may imagine what was said by those who had been commissioned on the preceding evening to kill the gentleman, when they witnessed these demonstrations of esteem and friendship. The lover then set out on his travels ; but as he had less money than good looks, his mistress gave him a ring her husband had given her, worth three thousand crowns, which he pawned for fifteen hundred. Some time after his departure the husband waited on the princess, and begged leave for his wife to pass some months with one of his sisters. The princess was much surprised at this unexpected request, and pressed him so much to tell her the reason of it, that he partially explained it to her. The young lady then having taken her leave of her mistress and the whole court, without shedding tears, or showing the least sign of grief, set out for the place to which her husband chose to send her, under the care of a gentleman who had express orders to watch her carefully, and above all, not to suffer her to speak on the road with the suspected person. Being aware of the nature of the orders given to her escort, she every day gave them alarms, and made game of their vigilance. On the day she began her journey, she fell in with a Cordelier on horseback, and chatted with him from dinner almost till bedtime. When they were within a good league of the inn, she said to him, “ Here, father, are two crowns for the con¬ solations you have afforded me; I have wrapped them in paper as you see, for otherwise I know you would not venture to touch them. Do me the favour to set off at a gallop across the country the moment you quit my side, and take care that DEUXIEMF. J 0 U R X £ E. Nnuvelle XI (Appendice) Novel 15.I Second Day. 109 • you are not seen by the people about me. I say this for your good and for the obligation I am under to you.” . Off went the Cordelier accordingly ; and no sooner had he gone, than she said to her attendants, “ Good servants you are, forsooth, and very vigilant guards. Properly you fulfil the orders of your master who confided in you. The very person with whom you have been commanded not to suffer me to speak, has been conversing with me the whole day, and you have let him alone. You deserve the stick, and not wages.” The gentleman to whose care the fair lady had been entrusted was so vexed at hearing this, that he could not answer her a single word. Taking two men with him, he set spurs to his horse and galloped after the Cordelier, who did his best to escape, seeing himself pursued ; but as they were better mounted they overtook him. The good father, who had no idea why they treated him in that manner, roared for mercy, and in suppliant humility took off his hood and remained bareheaded. They then perceived that he was not the person they had taken him for, and that their mistress had made fools of them ; which she did more cruelly still when they came back from their chase. “ You are proper men,” she said, “to be entrusted with the care of women. You let them talk without knowing to whom, and then believing anything they choose to tell you, you go and insult God’s servants.” After several other pranks as humorous as this, she reached the place of her destination, where her two sisters-in-law and the husband of one of them kept her in great subjection. By this time the husband learned that her ring was pledged for fifteen hundred crowns. To save the honour of his wife and recover the ring, he sent her word to redeem it, and that he would pay the money. Caring nothing for the ring since h@r lover had the money for it, she wrote to him that her husband constrained her to reclaim it, and lest he should suppose that she loved him less than before, she sent him a diamond which her mistress had given her, and which she prized more than all her other jewels. Her lover cheerfully sent her the merchant’s obligation, thinking himself well off to have fifteen hundred crowns and a diamond ; but glad above all things at being assured that his mistress loved him still. As long as the husband lived, they remained apart, and could only correspond in writing. Upon the husband’s death, the lover, supposing that his mistress still retained the same feelings towards him which she had always professed, lost no time in demanding her IIO The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. hand in marriage ; but found that long absence had given him a rival who was preferred to himself. He was so mortified at this, that, shunning all intercourse with ladies, he wooed danger, and died at last, after having distinguished himself as much as ever young man did. This tale, ladies, in which our sex is not spared, conveys this lesson to husbands : that wives of high spirit suffer themselves to be led astray by resentment and vindictiveness, rather than by the charms of love. The heroine of this novel long resisted that sweet passion, but at last gave way to her despair. A good woman should not do like her, for there is no excuse for a-bad action. The more one is exposed to do wrong, the more virtue there is in overcoming one’s self and doing well, instead of rendering evil for evil ; especially as the ill one thinks to do to another often recoils upon the doer. Happy those women in whom God manifests the virtues of chastity, meekness, and patience. “It strikes me, Longarine,” said Hircan, “that the lady you have been telling us of was inspired by resentment more than by love ; for had she loved the gentleman as much as she pre¬ tended, she would never have quitted him for another ; and therefore she may be called spiteful, vindictive, obstinate, and fickle.” “You talk at your ease on such matters,” said Ennasuite, “but you know not what a heart-break it is to love without being loved.” “ It is true I have little experience in that way,” said Hircan ; “ for only let a lady show the least coldness towards me, and at once I bid adieu to love and her.” “ That is all very well,” said Parlamente, “for a man like you, who loves only his own pleasure ; but an upright wife ought not to forsake her husband.” “And yet,” observed Simontault, “the fair one in question forgot for awhile that she was a woman ; for a man could not have revenged himself more signally.” “It is not fair,” said Osille, “to conclude from one instance of a naughty woman, that all others are like her.” “You are all women, however,” replied Safifredent; “and however bravely adorned you may be, any one who looked carefully under your petticoats would find that you are so.” “ We should do nothing but wrangle all day, if we were to listen to you,” said Nomerfide. “ But I so long to hear another story, that I beg Longarine to call on some one.” Novel 16.] Second Day . m Longarine cast her eyes on Geburon, and said, " If you have a story to tell of some good lady, pray do so now.’* “Since you call upon me,” replied Geburon, “I will relate to you a thing that happened at Milan.” NOVEL XVI. Of a Milanese lady who tested her lover’s courage, and afterwards loved him heartily. HEN the Grand-Master of Chaumont was governor of Milan, there was a lady there who passed for one of the most respectable in the city. She was the widow of an Italian count, and resided with her brothers-in- law, not choosing to hear a word about marrying again. Her conduct was so correct and guarded that she was highly esteemed by all the French and Italians in the duchy. One day, when her brothers and sisters-in-law entertained the Grand-Master of Chaumont, the widow could not help being present, contrary to her custom of never appearing at any festive meeting. The French could not see her without praising her beauty and her grace ; one among them especially, whom I will not name. It is enough to inform you that there was not a Frenchman in Italy more worthy to be loved, for he was fully endowed with all the beauties and graces which a gentleman could have. Though he saw the widow dressed in black crape, apart from the young people, and withdrawn into a corner with several old ladies, yet, being one who had never known what it was to fear man or woman, he accosted her, took off his mask, and quitted the dance to converse with her. He passed the whole evening with her and the old ladies her companions, and enjoyed himself more than he could have done with the youngest and sprightliest ladies of the court. So charmed was he with this conversation, that when it was time to retire he hardly believed he had had time to sit down. Though he talked with the widow only upon common topics, suited to the company around her, she failed not to perceive that he was anxious to make her acquaintance, which she was so resolute to prevent, that he could never afterwards meet with her in any company, great or small. At last, having made inquiries as to her habits of life, and learned that she went often to the churches and religious houses, he set so many people on the watch that she could not go to any of those places so secretly but that he was there before her, and 112 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre . stayed as long as he could see her. He made such good use ol his time, and gazed at her with such hearty good will, that she could not be ignorant < f his passion ; and to prevent these encounters she resolved o feign illness for some time, and heat mass at home. This was a bitter mortification to the gentleman, for he was thus deprivtd of his only means of seeing her. At last, when she thought she had baffled his plans, she returned to the churches as before, and Love took care forthwith to make this known to the gentleman, who. then resumed his habits of devotion. Ftaring lest she should throw some other obstacle in his way, and that he should n >t have time to make known to her what he felt, one morning, when she was hearing mass in a little chapel, where she thought herself snugly concealed, he placed himself at the end of the altar, and turning to her at the moment when the priest was elevating the host, said, in a voice of deep feeling, “ l swear to you, madam, by Him whom the priest holds in his hands, that you are the sole cause of my death. Though you deprive me of all opportunity to address you, yet you cannot be ignorant of the passion I entertain for you. My haggard eyes and death like countenance must have sufficiently made known to you my condition.” The lady pre¬ tended not to understand him, and replied, “ God’s name ought nor. to be taken in vain ; but the poets say that the gods laugh at the oaths and falsehoods of lovers, wherefore women who prize their honour ought neither to be credulous nor pitiful. So saying, she rose and went home. Those who have been in the like predicament will readily believe that the gentleman was sorely cast down at receiving such a reply. However, as he did not lack courage, he thought it better to have met with a rebuff than to have missed an opportunity of declaring his love. He persevered for three years, and lost not a moment in which he could solicit her by letters and by other means ; but during all that time she never made him any other reply, but shunned him as the wolf shuns the mastiff; and that not by reason of any aversion she felt for him, but because she was afraid of exposing her honour and re¬ putation. The gentleman was so well aware that there lay the knot of the difficulty, that he pushed matters more briskly than ever ; till, after a world of trouble, refusals, and sufferings, the lady was touched by his constancy, took pity on him, and granted him what he had so long desired and waited for. The assignation having been made, and the requisite measures concerted, the gentleman failed not to present himself at the Not'd 16.] Second Day . 113 rendezvous, at whatever risk of his life, for the fair widow resided with her relations. But as he was not less cunning than handsome, he managed so adroitly that he was in the lady’s chamber at the moment appointed. He found her alone in a handsome bed ; but as he was undressing in eager haste, he heard whisperings outside the chamber-door, and the noise of swords clashing against the walls. “ We are undone,” cried the widow, more dead than alive. “Your life and my honour are in mortal peril. My brothers are coming to kill you. Hide your¬ self under the bed, I beseech you ; for then they will not find you, and I shall have a right to complain of their alarming me without cause.” The gentleman, who was not easily frightened, coolly replied, ** What are your brothers that they should make a man of honour afraid ? If their whole race was assembled at the door, I am confident they would not stand the fourth lunge of my sword. Remain quietly in bed, therefore, and leave me to guard the door.” Then wrapping his cloak round his left arm, and with his sword in his hand, he opened the door, and saw that the threatening weapons were brandished by two servant maids. “ Forgive us, monsieur,” they said. “ It is by our mistress’s orders we do this ; but you shall have no more annoyance from us.” The gentleman, seeing that his supposed antagonists were women, contented himself with bidding them go to the devil, and slamming the door in their faces. He then jumped into bed to his mistress without delay. Fear had not cooled his ardour, and without wasting time in asking the meaning of the sham alarm, he thought only of satisfying his passion. Towards daylight, he asked his bedfellow why she had so long delayed his happiness, and what was her reason for making her servants behave so oddly. “ I had resolved,” she said, laughing, “never to love ; and I have adhered to that resolution ever since I became a widow. But the first time you spoke to me, I saw so much to admire in you that I changed my mind, and began from that hour to love you as much as you loved me. It is true that honour, which has always been the ruling principle of my conduct, would not suffer love to make me do anything which might blemish my reputation. But as the stricken deer thinks to change its pain by change of place, so did I go from church to church, hoping to fly from him whom I carried in my heart, the proof of whose perfect love has reconciled honour with love. But to be thoroughly assured that I gave my heart to a man who was perfectly worthy of it, I ordered my women to do as they have % 1X4 The Heptameron of the Quee?i of Navarre. done. I can assure you, if you had been frightened enough to hide under the bed, my intention was to have got up and gone into another room, and never have had anything more to do with you. But as I have found you not only comely and pleasing, but also full of valour and intrepidity to a degree even beyond whal fame had reported you ; as I have seen that fear could not appal you, nor in the least degree cool the ardour of your passion foi me, I have resolved to attach myself to you for the rest of my days ; being well assured that I cannot place my life and my honour in better hands than in those of him whom of all men in the world I believe to be the bravest and the best.” * As if human will could be immutable, they mutually promised and vowed a thing which was not in their power—I mean, per¬ petual affection, which can neither grow up nor abide in the hearts of men, as those ladies know who have learned by ex¬ perience what is the duration of such engagements. Therefore, ladies, if you are wise, you will be on your guard against us, as the stag would be against the hunter if the animal had reason . for our felicity, our glory, and delight is to see you captured, and to despoil you of what ought to be dearer to you than life. “ Since when have you turned preacher, Geburon ? ” said Hircan. “ You did not always talk in that fashion.” “ It is true,” replied Geburon, “that I have all my life long held a quite different language ; but as my teeth are bad, and I can no longer chew venison, I warn the poor deer against the hunters, that I may make amends in my old age for the mischiefs I have desired in my youth.” “Thank you, Geburon, for your warning,” retorted Nomerfide, “ but after all, we doubt that we have much reason to be obliged to you ; for you did not speak in that way to the lady you loved so much, therefore it is a p,roof that you do not love us, or yet wish that we should love. Y£t we believe ourselves to be as pru¬ dent and virtuous as those you so long chased in your young days. But it is a common vanity of the old to believe that they have always been more discreet than those who come after them.” “ When the cajolery of one of ) T our wooers,” retorted Geburon, “shall have made you acquainted with the nature of men, you will then believe, Nomerfide, that I have told you the truth.” “Tome it seems probable,” observed Oisille, “that the gentle¬ man whose intrepidity you extol so highly must rather have been * The hero of this novel is again Admiral de Bonnivet, as we learn from rantdme. Novel 17 .] Second Day. 115 possessed by the fury of love, a passion so violent that it makes the greatest poltroons undertake things which the bravest would think twiceof before attempting.” “ If he had not believed, madam,” said Saffredent, “that the Italians are readier with their tongues than with their hands, methinks he must have been frightened.” “ Yes,” said Oisille, “ if he had not had a fire in his heart which burns up fear.” “ Since you did not think the courage of this gentleman sufficiently laudable,” said Hircan, u I presume you know of some other instance which seems to you more worthy of praise.” “ It is true that this gentleman’s courage deserves some praise,” said Oisille, “ but I know an instance of intrepidity that is worthy of higher admiration.” “Pray tell us it then, madam,” said Geburon. “ If you so much extol,” said Oisille, “ the bravery of a man who displayed it for the defence of his own life and of his mistress's honour, what praise is too great for another, who, without necessity, and from pure valour, behaved in the manner I am about to relate ? ** NOVEL XVII. How King Francis gave proof of his courage in the case of Count Guillaume, who designed his death. GERMAN count named Guillaume, of the House of Saxe, to which that of Savoy is so closely allied that anciently the two made but one, came to Dijon, in Burgundy, and entered the service of King Francis. This count, who was considered one of the finest men in Germany, and also one of the bravest, was so well received by the king, that he not only took him into his service, but placed him near his person, as one of the gentlemen of his chamber. The Seig¬ neur de la Tremouille, Governor of Burgundy, an old knight and faithful servant of the king, being naturally suspicious and atten¬ tive to his master’s interests, had always a good number of spies among his enemies to discover their intrigues ; and he conducted himself with such wariness that little escaped his notice. One day he received a letter, informing him among other things that Count Guillaume had already received certain sums of money with promises of more, provided he would have the king put to death in any way in which it could be done. The Seigneur de la Tremouille instantly communicated the intelligence to the king, u6 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. and made no secret of it to Madame Louise of Savoy, his mothei v who, putting out of consideration that she was related to the German, begged the king to dismiss him forthwith. Instead ot doing so, the king begged Madame Louise to say no more about it, declaring it impossible that so gallant a man could be guilty of so villainous an act. Some time after, a second despatch was received, confirmatory of the former one. The governor, burning with zeal for the preservation of his master’s life, begged permission of him either to expel the count from the realm, or to take precautionary measures against him ; but the king expressly commanded him to make no stir in the matter, doubting not that he should come at the truth by some other means. One day, the king went to the chase, arme with no other weapon than a very choice sword, and took Count Guillaume with him, desiring him to keep .close up with him. After having hunted the stag for some time, the king, finding himself alone with Count Guillaume, and far from his suite, turned aside, and rode into the thick of the forest. When they had advanced some way he drew his sword, and said to the count, “ What think you ? Is not this an excellent sword ? ” The count, taking it by the point, replied that he did not think he had ever seen a better. “ You are right,” rejoined the king; “ and it strikes me that it a gentleman had conceived the design of killing me, and knew the strength of my arm, the boldness of my heart, and the temper of this good sword, he would think twice of it before he attacked me ; nevertheless, I should regard him as a great villain, if, being alone with me, man to man, he durst not attempt to execute what he had dared to'undertake.” “ The villainy of the design would be very great, sire,” replied the astounded count; “but not less would be the folly of attempting to put it in execution.” The king sheathed his sword with a laugh, and, hearing the sound of the chase, set spurs to the horse, and galloped in the direction from which the sound came. When he rejoined his suite he said not a word of what had passed, satisfied in his own mind that Count Guillaume, for all his vigour and bravery, was not the man to strike so daring a blow. The count, however, making no doubt that he was suspected, and greatly fearing a discovery, went the next day to Robertet, the secretary of finance, and told him that, on considering the profits and appointments the king had proposed to make him for remaining in his service, he found they would not be sufficient to Novel 17.] Second Day. 11; maintain him for half the year; and that, unless 1.is majesty would be pleased to double them, he should 3e under the neces¬ sity of retiring. He concluded by begging that Robertet would ascertain the king’s pleasure in the matter, and make him ac¬ quainted with it as soon as possible. Robertet said he would lose no time, for he would go that instant to the king : a com¬ mission which he undertook the more readily, as he had seen the information obtained by La Tremouille. As soon as the king was awake, Robertet laid his business before him, in presence of Monsieur de la Tremouille and Admiral de Bonnivet, who were not aware of what the king had done the day before. “ You want to dismiss Count Guillaume,” said the king, laugh¬ ing, “and you see he dismisses himself. You may tell him, then, that if he is not satisfied with the terms he accepted when he entered my service, and which many a man of good family would think himself fortunate in having, he may see if he can do better elsewhere. Far from wishing to hinder him, I shall be very glad to have him find as good a position as he deserves.” Robertet was as prompt in carrying this reply to the count as he had been in laying the latter’s proposals before the king. “ That being the case, I must retire from his majesty’s service,” said the count. Fear made him so eager to be gone, that twenty-four hours sufficed for the rest. He took leave of his majesty as he was sitting down to table, and affected extreme regret at the necessity which compelled him to quit that gracious presence. He also took leave of the king's mother, who let him go with no less gladness than she had welcomed him as a kins¬ man and friend. The king, seeing his mother and his courtiers surprised at the count’s sudden departure, made known to them the alarm he had given the count, adding that even if he were innocent of what was laid to his charge, he had a fright suffi¬ cient to make him quit a master whose temper he did not yet know. * I see no reason, ladies, which could have obliged the king thus to expose his person against a man who was reckoned so formidable an adversary, had he not chosen, from mere greatness of soul, to quit the company in which kings find no inferiors to offer them simple combat, in order to put himself upon an equal * The fact related in this novel must have occurred in the forest of Argilly* in July, 1521, when Francis I. was at Dijon. The German count in question was Wilhelm von Furstemberg. He is the subject of the thirtieth chapter ol BrantAme’s CapUai**?* Strangers ii8 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. footing with a man whom he regarded as his enemy, and .O prove in person his daring and high courage. “ He was certainly right,” said Parlamente ; “for the praises of all mankind are not so satisfying to a great heart as its own experience of the virtues with which God has endowed it.” “ The ancients long ago represented,” said Geburon, “ that one cannot arrive at the temple of Fame without passing through that of Virtue. As I know the two persons of whom you have related this tale, I know perfectly well that the king is one of the most intrepid men in his dominions.” “When Count Guillaume came to France,” said Hircan, “I should have been more afraid of his sword than of those of the best four among the Italians who were then at court.” “We all know,” said Ennasuite, “that all the praises we could bestow on the king would fall far short of his merits, and that the day would be gone before everyone should have said all he thinks of him. Therefore, madam, give your voice to some one who may again tell us something to the advantage of men, if any such thing there be.” “ I imagine,” said Oisilie to Hircan, “that as you are so much in the habit of speaking ill of women, you will not find it difficult to tell us something good of your own sex.” “ That I can the more easily do,” replied Hircan, “as it is not long since I was told a tale of a gentleman whose love, forti¬ tude, and patience were so praiseworthy that I must not suffer their memory to be lost.” NOVEL XVIII. A lady tests the fidelity of a young student, her lover, before granting him her favours. 'N a certain town in France there lived a young seig¬ neur of good family, who was attending the schools, desiring to acquire the knowledge which endows those of quality with honour and virtue. Though hi had already made such progress in his studies that at the age of seventeen or eighteen he was a pattern for other students Love failed not, nevertheless, to teach him other lessons. To make them more impressive and acceptable, that sly instructo * con¬ cealed himself under the face and in the eyes of the handsomest lady in the country, who had come to town on bus ness con¬ nected with a lawsuit. Before Love employed the charms of this lady to subjugate the young seigneur, he had gained hei Novel 18.] Second Day. 119 heart by letting her see the perfections of the gentleman, who for good looks, pleasing manners, good sense, and a winning tongue, was not surpassed by anyone. You who know what way this fire makes in a little time, when once it has begun to burn the outworks of a heart, will easily imagine that love was not long in rendering himself master of two such accomplished subjects, and so filling them with his light that their thoughts, wishes, and words were but the flame of that love. The natural t’mid’ty of youth made the gallant press his suit with all possible gentleness. But it. was not necessary to do violence to the fair one, since love had already vanquished her. Modesty, nevertheless, that inseparable companion of the ladies, obliged her to conceal the sentiments of her heart as long as she could. But at last the citadel of the heart, wherein honour has its dwelling, was so breached that the poor lady gave her consent to what she had never been loth to. Still, in order to put the patience, fortitude, and passion of her lover to the proof, she surrendered only on one very difficult condition ; on his fulfilling which, she assured him that she would always love him most truly ; but if he failed in it, she would do quite the reverse. The condition she pro¬ posed was this : she would condescend to talk with him, both being in bed together en chemise , but he was to ask nothing of her beyond kisses and sweet words ; and he, thinking there was no joy comparable to that which she offered him, accepted the condition without hesitation. That night the compact was fulfilled. It was in vain she caressed him ; he would never break his word, however sharply he felt the promptings of nature. Though he was fully assured that the pains of purgatory were not a whit worse than those he endured, yet his love was so great, and his hopes so strong, that, counting on the perpetual affection it cost him so much to secure, he triumphed by his patience, and got up from beside her just as he laid down. The fair one, more astonished, I rather think, than pleased at such extraordinary forbearance, took it into her head either that his love was not so great as he said, or that he had not found in her all the attractions he had expected ; for she made no account at all of the pro¬ priety, patience, and religious fidelity of her lover. She resolved, therefore, before she surrendered, to put the love he professed for her once more to the proof. To this end she requested him to gallant a girl she had in her service, one who was very good- looking, and much younger than herself, in order that person* who saw him come so often to her house might suppose that he 120 1 'he Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. came for the sake of the girl, and not of herself. The your seigneur, who flattered himself that he had inspired as much love as he harboured in his own bosom, did all that was re¬ quired of him, and made love to the girl in obedience to her mistress’s desire ; and the girl, pleased with the addresses of so handsome a youth, who had such a seductive tongue, believed all he said to her, and was in love with him in earnest. The mistress, seeing that things had come to this pass, and that her lover desisted none the more from pressing her to fulfll her promise, admitted to him that, after having put his love to such severe proofs, it was but just that she should recompense his constancy arid si missivt-ness ; accordingly, she pronn c his services and his love were crowned, and he obtained from the fair one thenceforth all his heart could wish for. Show me, ladies, if you can, a woman who has evinced the same firmness, patience, and fidelity in love as this gentleman. Those who have been exposed to the like temptations think those which painters assign to St. Anthony very trivial in com¬ parison. For he who can be chaste and patient in spite of the temptations of beauty, love, opportunity, and the absence of all hindrance, may rely on having virtue enough to overcome all the devils in hell. “It is a pity,” said Oisille, “that the gentleman did not address his love to a lady as virtuous as himself ; it would then have been the most decorous and perfect I ever heard of.” “Tell me,” said Geburon, “which of this gentleman’s two trials do you think was the more difficult ? ” “The last, I think,” said Parlamente ; “for resentment and anger are the most terrible of all temptations.” Longarine said she thought that the first was the most arduous of the two ; for in order to keep his promise, he had to be victorious over love and over himself. “ You talk at random,” said Simontault ; “but we, who know something about the matter, may be allowed to say what we think of it. For my part, I say that he was a fool the first time, and a blockhead the second. It is my belief that, in keep¬ ing his word to his mistress, he made her suffer as much as himself, or more. She only exacted that promise from him to make herself appear a better conducted woman than she really was ; for she could not but know that there is no command, or oath, or anything else in the world, which is capable of stop¬ ping the headlong impulses of a violent love. She was very 122 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. glad to cover her vice under an appearance of virtue, and make believe that she was accessible for nothing beneath a heroic virtue. He was a blockhead the second time to leave her who loved him, and was worth more than the other, especially when he had so good an excuse as the provocation he had received.” “ I say quite the contrary,” interrupted Dagoucin. “ The first time he showed himself firm, patient, and a man of his word ; and the second time, faithful, and loving to per¬ fection.” “And who knows,” said Saffredent, “ but he was one of those whom a chapter names de frigidis et maleficiatis f * But that nothing might be wanting to the glory of this hero, Hircan ought to have acquainted us if he did his duty when he got what he wanted. We should then have been able to judge whether he was so chaste through virtue or through impotence.” “ You may be sure,” said Hircan, “ that if I had been told this, I should not have concealed it any more than the rest. But knowing as I do the man and his temperament, I attribute his conduct to the force of his love, and not at all to impotence or coldness.” “ If that is the case,’* said Saffredent, “ he ought to have laughed at his promise. Had the fair one been offended at his doing so, it would not have been very hard to appease her.” “ But, perhaps,” said Ennasuite, “she would not then have consented.” “ That’s a fine idea ! ” cried Saffredent. “ Was he not strong enough to force her, since she had given him the opportunity ? ” “ Holy Mary ! ” exclaimed Nomerfide, “ how you talk ! Is that the way to win the good graces of a lady who is believed to be chaste and modest ? ” “ It seems to me,” replied Saffredent, “that one cannot do more honour to a woman of whom one desires to have that sort of thing than to take it by force, for there is not the pettiest demoiselle of them all but dearly loves to be long wooed and entreated. There are some who can only be won by dint of presents ; others are so stupid that they are hardly pregnable on any side. With these latter, one must think of nothing but how to hit upon the means of having them. But when one has to do with a dame so wary that one cannot deceive her, and so good * This is an allusion to the penalties pronounced by several councils, and repeated in the Capitularies and the Decretals of Pope Boniface VII[., against those who were supposed guilty of having by magical practices deprived a bridegroom of the £ ower of consummating his nuptials. Novel 19.] Second Day. 123 that she is not to be come at either by presents or by fair words, is it not allowable to try all possible means of success ? When ever you hear that a man has forced a woman, you may be sure that she had left him no other means to accomplish his ends ; and you ought not to think the worse of a man who has risked his life to satisfy his love.” “ I have seen in my time,” said Geburon, laughing, “ places besieged and taken by storm, because there was no means of bringing the governors to terms either by money or threats ; for they say that a fortress which treats is half taken.” “One would think,” said Ennasuite, “that love is built only upon these follies. There have been many who have loved constantly with other intentions.” “ If you know one such instance,” said Hircan, “tell it us.” “ I know one,” said Ennasuite, “ which I will willingly relate.” NOVEL XIX. Two lovers, in despair at being hindered from marrying, turn monk and nun. N the time of the Marquis of Mantua, who had married the sister of the Duke of Ferrara, there was in the service of the duchess a demoiselle named Pauline, so much loved by a gentleman who was in the service of the marquis that everyone was surprised at the excess of his passion ; for being poor, but a handsome man, and, moreover, in great favour with the marquis, it was thought that he ought to attach himself to a lady who had wealth enough for them both : but he regarded Pauline as the greatest of all treasures, which he hoped to make his own by marriage. The marchioness, who loved Pauline, and wished that she should make a wealthier match, dissuaded her from this one as much as she could, and often hindered the lovers from seeing each other, telling them that if they married they would be the poorest and most miser¬ able couple in Italy. But the gentleman could not admit the validity of this argument. Pauline, on her part, dissembled her love as much as she could ; but she only thought of it the more for all that. Their courtship was long, and they hoped their fortune would mend in time. While they were awaiting this happy change, war broke out, and the gentleman was made prisoner, along with a Frenchman who was as much in love in his own country as the other was »n lialy. Being fellcws in misfortune, they began reciprocally to 124 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre communicate their secrets. The Frenchman told his companion that his heart was captive, without saying to whom ; but as they were both in the service of the Marquis of Mantua, the French¬ man knew that his comrade loved Pauline, and, having his interest at heart, advised him to abandon that connection. This the Italian vowed it was impossible for him to do, and added that, unless the Marquis of Mantua, in recompense for his im¬ prisonment and his good services, bestowed his mistress upon him-at his return, he would turn Cordelier, and never serve any other master than God. The Frenchman, who saw in him no signs of religion, with the exception of his devotion to Pauline, could not believe that he spoke in earnest. At the end of nine months the Frenchman was set at liberty, and exerted himself to such effect that he procured that of his comrade also, who immediately on his liberation renewed his importunities to the marquis and the marchioness for their sanction to his marriage with Pauline. It was in vain they represented to him the poverty to which they would both be reduced ; the relations on both sides, who would not consent to the match, forbade him to speak any more to Pauline, in hopes that absence and impossi¬ bility would cure him of his headstrong passion : but all this was unavailing to change his feelings. Seeing himself forced to submit, he asked leave of the marquis and marchioness to bid farewell to Pauline, after which he would see her no more, and his request was forthwith granted. “ Since heaven and earth are against us,” said he to Pauline when they met, “ and we are not only forbidden to marry, but even to see each other, the marquis and marchioness, our master and mistress, who exact such a cruel kind of obedience of us, may boast of having with one word smitten two hearts, whose bodies can henceforth only languish to death. By so unfeeling a mandate they plainly show that they have never known love or pity. I know well that their purpose is to see us both prosper¬ ously established in wealthy marriages ; but they know not that people are truly rich only when they are content. However, they have so wronged and incensed me that it is impossible I should remain in their service. I have no doubt that if I had never talked of marrying you. they would not have carried their scruples so far as to forbid our speaking to each other ; but as for me, I can assure you that, having long loved you so honestly and truly, I shall continue to love you all my life. And foras¬ much as seeing you I could not endure the monstrous hardship of not being allowed to speak to you, and not seeing you, my V Novel 19.] Second Day. 125 heart, which could not remain void, would be filled with a despair which might end fatally for me, I have for a long time resolved to retreat into the cloister. Not but that I well know one may work out his salvation in any condition of life ; but I believe that in these retreats one has more leisure to meditate on the greatness of the Divine goodness, which will have pity, I trust, on the faults of my youth, and dispose my heart to love the things of heaven as much as I have loved those of earth. If God gives me the grace to be able to obtain his, my continual occupation will be to pray for you. I entreat you, by the faithful and constant love we have borne to one another, to remember me in your prayers, and to beseech the Lord to give me as much constancy, when I cease to see you, as He gave me gladness in beholding you. As I have hoped all my life to have from you through marriage what honour and conscience allow, and have contented myself with that hope, now that- I lose it, and can never be treated by you as a husband, I entreat that, in bidding me farewell, you will treat me as a brother, and let me kiss you.” Poor Pauline, who had manifested rigour enough towards him, seeing the extremity of his grief and the reasonableness of his request, which was so moderate under such circumstances, could only reply by throwing herself in tears on his neck. So overcome was she that speech, sense, and motion failed her, and she fainted in his arms, whilst love, sorrow, and pity produced the same effect on him. One of Pauline’s companions, who saw them fa/1, called for help, and they were recovered by force of remedies. Pauline, who wished to hide her affection, was ashamed when she was aware how vehemently she had suffered it to display itself,* however, she found a good excuse in the commiseration she had felt for the gentleman. That heart¬ broken lover, unable to utter the words, “ Farewell for ever ! ” hurried away to his chamber, fell like a corpse on his bed, and passed the night in such bitter lamentations that his servant sup¬ posed he had lost all his relations and friends, and all he was worth in the world. Next morning he commended himself to our Lord, and after dividing the little he possessed among his domestics, only retaining a very small sum of money for his immediate use, he forbade his servants to follow him, and wended his way alone to the convent of the Observance, to ask for the monastic habit, with the determination of wearing none other as long as he lived. The warden, who had known him formerly, thaught at first that he was joking, or that he himself was dream- 126 7 he Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. ing; indeed, there was not a man in all the country who hail less the look of a Cordelier, or was better gifted with the graces and endowments which one could desire to see in a gentleman. But after having heard him, and seen him shed floods of tears, the source of which was unknown to him, the warden kindly received him as a guest, and soon afterwards, seeing his perseverance, he gave him the robe of the order, which the poor gentleman re¬ ceived with great devotion. The marquis and marchioness were made acquainted with this event, and were so much surprised at it that they could hardly believe it. Pauline, to show that she was without passion, did her best to dissemble her regret for her lover, and succeeded so well that everybody said she had forgotten him, whilst all the time she would fain have fled to some hermitage, to shun all commerce with the world. But one day, when she went to hear mass at the Observance with her mistress, when the priest, the deacon, and the sub-deacon issued from the vestry to go to the high altar, her lover, who had not yet completed the year of his noviciate, served as acolyte, and led the procession, carrying in both hands the two cajiettes covered with silk-cloth, and walking with downcast eyes. Pauline, seeing him in that garb, which augmented rather than diminished his good looks, was so surprised and confused that, to conceal the real cause of her heightened colour, she began to cough. At that sound, which he recognized better than the bells of his monastery, the poor lover durst not turn his head ; but as he passed before her, he could not hinder his eyes from taking the direction to which they had been so long used. Whilst gazing sadly on his mistress, the fire he had thought almost ex¬ tinct blazed up so fiercely within him that, making an effort beyond his strength to conceal it, he fell full length on the floor. His fear lest the cause of this accident should be known prompted him to say that the floor of the church, which was broken at that spot, had thrown him down. Pauline perceived from this circumstance that he had not changed his heart along with his habit ; and believing that, as it was now so long since he had retired from the world, everyone imagined she had forgotten him, she resolved to put into execution her long-meditated design of following her lover’s example. Having now been more than fourteen months privily making all necessary arrangements previous to her taking the veil, she one morning asked leave of the marchioness to go to hear mass at the convent of St. Claire. Her mistress granted this request without knowing why it was preferred. Calling at the Franciscan mo- Novel 19 .] Second Day. 12 ; nastery on her way, Pauline begged the warder, to let her see her lover, whom sne called her relation. She saw him in private, in a chapel, and said to him, “ If I could with honour have retired to the cloister as soon as you, I should have been there long ago, But now that by my patience I have prevented the remarks of those who put a bad construction upon everything rather than a good one, I am resolved to renounce the world, and adopt the order, habit, and life which you have chosen. If you fare well, I shall have my part ; and if you fare ill, I do not wish to be exempt. I desire to go to Paradise by the same road as you, being assured that the Being who is supremely perfect, and alone worthy to be called Love, has drawn us to his service by means of an innocent and reasonable affection, which He will convert entirely to himself through His Holy Spirit. Let us both forget this perishing body, which is of the old Adam, to receive and put on that of Jesus Christ, who is our spirit.” The cowled lover wept with joy to hear her express such a holy desire, and did his utmost to confirm it. “ Since I can nevctr hope for more than the satisfaction of seeing you,” he said, “ I esteem it a great blessing that I am in a place where I may always have opportunity to see you. Our conversations will be such that we shall both be the better for them, loving as we shall do with one love, one heart, one mind, led by the goodness of God, whom I pray to hold us in His good hands, in which no one perishes.” So saying, and weeping with love and joy, he kissed her hands ; but she stooped her face as low as her hand, and they exchanged the kiss of love in true charity. From the Franciscan monastery, Pauline went straight to the convent of St. Claire, where she was received and veiled. Once there, she sent word to her mistress, who, hardly crediting such strange news, went to see her next day, and did all she could to dissuade her from her purpose. The only reply she received from Pauline was that she ought to be satisfied with having deprived her of a husband of flesh, the only man in the world she had ever loved, without seeking likewise to separate her from Him \r ho is immortal and invisible, which neither she nor all the creatures on earth could do. The marchioness, seeing her so strong in her pious resolution^ kissed her, and left her in her convent with extreme regret. These two persons lived afterwards such holy and devout lives that it cannot be doubted that He whose law is charity said to them at the end of their course, as to Mary Magdalen, “ Your sins are forgiven, since you have loved so much,” and removec 1 The Heptameron oj me Queen of Navarre. them in peace to the blessed abode where the recompense in* finitely surpasses all human merits. You cannot but own, ladies, that the man’s love was the greatei of the two ; but it was so well repaid that I would all those who love were so richly recompensed. “ In that case, there would be more fools than ever,” said Hircan. “ Do you call it folly,” said Oisille, “ to love virtuously in youth, and then to centre all our love in God ? ” “If despite and despair are laudable,” replied Hircan, laughing, “ then I must say that Pauline and her lover are worthy of high praise.” “Yet God has many ways of attracting us to Him,” said Geburon ; “and though their beginnings seem bad, their end is, nevertheless, very good.” “ I believe.” said Parlamente, “ that no one ever perfectly loved God who did not perfectly love some of his creatures in this » world.” “What do you call loving perfectly ?” said SafTredent. “Do you believe that those enamoured cataleptics who worship ladies at a hundred paces’ distance, without daring to speak out, love perfectly ? ” “ I call perfect lovers,” replied Parlamente, “ those who seek in what they love some perfection, be it goodness, beauty, or charming demeanour ; who aim always at virtue, and whose hearts are so noble and so spotless that they would rather lose their lives than devote them to low things forbidden by honour and conscience ; for the soul which is created only to return to its sovereign good, so long as it is imprisoned in the body, does but long to arrive at that high destination. But because the senses, which can give it views thereof, are obscured and carnal since the sin of our first parents, they can only present to it those visible objects which approach nearest to perfection. In that direction the soul rushes forth, and thinks to find in outward beauty, in visible graces, and in moral virtues, the supreme beauty, grace, and virtue. But after having sought and proved them, and not found what it loves, the soul lets them go, and passes on its way, like the child who loves apples, pears, dolls, and other trivial things, the handsomest it can see, and thinks that to amass little pebbles is to be wealthy ; but as it grows ap it loves living dells, and amasses things necessary to human Ufe. After a longer experience has shown it that there is neither I Novel 19.] Second Day . 129 perfection nor felicity in the things of this earth, it seeks # the true felicity, and Him who is its source and principle. Still, if God did not open the eyes of its faith, it would be in danger of passing from ignorance to infidel philosophy ; for it is faith alone that demonstrates and makes the soul receive that good which the carnal and animal man cannot know.” “ Do you not see,” said Longarine, " that even the uncultivated ground, which produces only trees and useless herbs, is, never- theless, an object of desire, in the hope that when it is well cultivated and sown it will produce good grain ? In like manner, the heart of man, which is conscious only of visible things, will never arrive at the condition of loving God but through the seed of the Word ; for that heart is a sterile, cold, and corrupted soil.” “ Thence it comes,” said Saffredent, “ that most doctors are not spiritual, because they never love anything but good wine and ugly sluts of chambermaids, without making trial of what it is to love honourable ladies.” “ If I could speak Latin well,” said Simontault, “ I would quote St. John to you, who says, ‘ He who loves not his brother whom he sees, how shall he love God whom he doth not see ?’ In loving visible things, one comes to love things invisible.” “ Tell us where is the man so perfect as you describe, ti laudabimus eum," said Ennasuite. “There are such men,” replied Dagoucin • “ men who love so strongly and so perfectly that they would rather die than enter¬ tain desires contrary to the honour and conscience of their mistresses, and who yet would not have either them or others be aware of their sentiments.” “ These men are like the chameleon, who lives on air,” ob¬ served Saffredent. “ There is no man in the world but is very glad to have it known that he loves, and delighted to know that he is loved. Also, I am convinced, that there is no fever of affection so strong but passes off as soon as one knows the con¬ trary. For my part, I have seen palpable miracles in that way.” «• I beg, then,” said Ennasuite, “that you will take my place, and tell us a story of someone who has been restored from death to life by having discovered in his mistress the reverse of what he desired.” “ I am so much afraid,” said Saffredent, “ of displeasing the ladies, whose most humble servant I have always been, and always shall be, that without an express command I should not have dared to speak of their imperfections. But, in token of obedience, I will speak the truth The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. NOVEL XX. 13 ° A gentleman finds his mistress in the arms of her groom, and is cured at once of his love. one time there lived in Dauphind a gentleman named the Seigneur De Riant, of the household of King Francis I., and one of the best-looking and best-bred men of his day. He paid his court for a long time to a widow, whom he loved and respected so much that, for fear of losing her good graces, he durst not ask of her that which he longed for with the utmost passion. As he was conscious of being a handsome man and well worthy of being loved, he firmly believed what she often swore to him—namely, that she loved him above all men in the world ; and that if she were con¬ strained to do anything for anyone, it would be for him alone, who was the most accomplished gentleman she had ever known. She begged he would content himself with this, and not attempt to exceed the limits of decorous friendship, assuring him that, upon the least symptom of his craving anything more, she should be lost to him for ever. The poor gentleman not only contented himself with these fine words, but even deemed himself happy in having won the heart of a person he believed to be so virtuous. It would be an end¬ less affair to give you a circumstantial detail of his love, of the long intercourse he had with her, and of the journeys he made to see her. Enough to say that this poor martyr to a fire so pleasing that the more one is burned by it the more one likes to be burned, daily sought the means of aggravating his martyrdom. One day he was seized with a desire to travel post to see her whom he loved better than himself, and whom he prized above all the women in the world. On arriving at her house he asked where she was. They told him she had just come back from vespers, and was gone to take a turn in the warren to finish her devotions. He dismounts, goes straight to the warren, and meets her woman, who tells him that she is gone to walk alone in the great alley. Upon this he began to hope more than ever for some good fortune, and continued to search for her as softly as possible, desiring above all things to steal upon her when she was alone. But on coming to a charming pleached arbour, in his impatience to behold his adored, he darted into it abruptly, and what did he see then but the lady stretched on the grass, in the arms of a groom, as ugly, nasty, and disreputable as De Riant was all the reverse. I will not V Novel 20.] Second Day. 131 pretend to describe his indignation at so unexpected a spectacle; I will only say it was so great that in an instant it extinguished his long-cherished flame. “ Much good may it do you, madam,” said he, as full of resentment as he had been of love. “ I am now cured and delivered of the continual anguish which your fancied virtue had caused me ;** and without another word, he turned on his heel and went back faster than he had come. The poor woman had not a word to say for herself, and couid only put her hands over her face, that as she could not cover her shame she might at least cover her eyes, and not see him who saw her but too plainly, notwithstanding her long dissimulation. So, ladies, unless you choose to love perfectly, never think of dissembling with a proper man, and giving him displeasure for sake of your own glory ; for hypocrisy is paid as it deserves, and God favours those who love frankly. * “ It must be confessed,” said Oisille, “ that you have kept something good in reserve for us to the end of the day. If we were not pledged to tell the truth, I could not believe that a woman of such station could have forgotten herself so much as to quit so handsome a gentleman for a nasty groom.” “If you knew, madam,” replied Hircan, ‘‘the difference there is between a gentleman who has all his life worn harness and followed the army, and a servant who has led a sedentary life and been well fed, you would excuse this poor widow.” “ Say what you will,” rejoined Oisille, “ I doubt that you would admit any excuse for her.” “I have heard,” said Simontault, “that there are women who are very glad to have apostles to preach up their virtue and their chastity ; they treat them with the most gracious kindness and familiarity, and assure them they would grant them what they sue for, did conscience and honour permit it. When the poor dupes are in company they talk of these excellent ladies, and swear they would put their hands in the fire if they are not women of virtue, relying on the proof they think they have personally obtained for their assertion. But the ladies thus praised by these simple gentlemen show themselves in their real colours to those who are like themselves, and choose for the * This is a very old story, though told by the Queen of Navarre, with name and date, as one of her own time. It occurs in the introduction to the Arabian Nights, in the eighteenth canto of the Orlando Furioso, and in the novels of Morlini, the first edition of which was printed at Naples in 1520. La Fontaine has put it at the beginning of his tale of Joconde. 132 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navari e. objects 011 whom they bestow their favours men who have not the boldness to tell tales, and of so abject a condition that, even, were they to blab, they would not be believed.” “ I have heard the same thing - said before by extravagantly jealous folk,” said Longarine. “But surely this is what may be called painting a chimera ; for though such a thing may have happened to one wretched woman, is it thence to be inferred that all women do the same thing ? ” “ The more we talk on this subject,” said Parlamente, “ the more we shall be maligned. We had better go hear vespers, that we may not keep the monks waiting for us as we did yester¬ day.” This proposal was unanimously agreed to. “ If anyone,” said Oisille, as they were walking back to the monastery, “gives thanks to God for having told the truth to¬ day, Saffredent ought to implore his pardon for having told such a villanous tale against the ladies.” “ I give you my oath,” said Saffredent, “ that although I have only spoken upon hearsay what I have told you is, nevertheless, the strict truth. But if I choose to tell you what I could relate of women from my own knowledge, you would make more signs of the cross than they do in consecrating a church.” “ Since you have so bad an opinion of women,” said Par¬ lamente, “ they ought to banish you from their society.” “ There are some who have so well practised what you ad¬ vise,” he replied, “that if I could say worse of them, and do worse to them all, to excite them to avenge me on her who does me so milch injustice, I should not be slow to do so.” While he was speaking, Parlamente put on her half-mask and went with the rest into the church, where they found that although the bell had been rung for vespers there were no monks to say them. The fathers had been apprised of the agreeable manner in which the company spent their time in the meadow, and being fonder of pleasure than of their prayers, they had gone and crouched down there in a ditch behi d a very thick hedge, and had listened to the tales with so much attention that they had not heard the vesper-bell. The con¬ sequence was that they came running in with such haste that they were quite out of breath when they should have begun vespers. After service, some of the company inquiring of them why they had come in so late and chanted so badly, they con¬ fessed the cause ; and for the future they were allowed to listen behind the hedge, and to sit at their ease. The supper was a V Novel 20.] Second Day. 133 merry one ; and during it were uttered such things as any of the company had lorgoiten to deliver in the meadow. This tilled up the rest of the evening, until Oisille begged them to retire, that they might prepare for the morrow, saying that an hour before midnight was better than three after it. Thereupon they sought their respective chambers, and so ended the second day. ♦ *34 The Heptamero?i of the Queen of Navarre. THIRD DAY. ARLY as it was next morning when the company as¬ sembled in the refectory, they found Madame Oisille already there. She had been meditating for half an hour on what she was to read to them ; and so intent were they upon listening to her that they did not hear the bell, and a monk had to come and tell them that high mass was about to begin. After hearing mass and dining soberly, in order to have their memories more clear, they all retired to their chambers to review their several repertories of tales previously to the next meeting in the meadow. Those who had some droll story to tell were already so merry that one could not look in their faces without being prepared beforehand for a hearty laugh. When all were seated, they asked Saffredent to whom he addressed his call. “ The fault I committed yester¬ day,” he said, “ being as you say so great, and knowing not how to repair it, I call on Parlamente. Her excellent sense will enable her to praise the ladies in such a manner as will make you forget the truth I have told you.” “ I do not undertake to repair your faults,” replied Parla¬ mente ; “ but I will take gooJ care not to imitate them. To this end, without departing from the truth we have pledged ourselves to speak, I will show you that there are ladies who in their love have had no other end in view than virtue and honour. As the lady of whom I have to speak is of a good family, I will change nothing in her story but the names. You will see, ladies, from what I am going to narrate, that love can make no change in a chaste and virtuous heart.” NOVEL XXI. Virtuous love of a young lady of quality and a bastard of an illustrious touse —Hindrance of their marriage by a queen—Sage reply of the demoiselle to the queen—Her subsequent marriage. HERE was a queen in France who had in her house¬ hold several young ladies of good birth, and among the rest one named Rolandine, who was her near relation. But the queen, being displeased with this young lady’s father, punished the innocent for the gudty, and behaved not very well to Rolandine. Though this young lady was neither a areat beauty nor the reverse, such was the propriety or 1 her de- Novel 21.] Third Day. 135 meanour and the sweetness of her disposition, that many great lords sought her in marriage, but obtained no reply, lor Ro- landine’s father was so fond of his money that he neglected the establishment of his daughter. On the other hand, she was so little in favour of her mistress that she was not wooed by those who wished to ingratiate themselves with the queen. Thus, through the negligence of her father and the disdain of her mistress, this poor young lady remained long unmarried. At last she took this sorely to heart, not so much from eagerness to be married, as from shame at not being so. Her grief reached such a pitch that she forsook the pomp and mundane pursuits of the court to occupy herself only with prayer and some little handiworks. In this tranquil manner she passed her youth, leading the most blameless and devour of lives. When she was approaching her thirtieth year, she became acquainted with a gentleman, a bastard of an illustrious house, and one of the best-bred men of his day, but ill endowed by fortune, and of so little comeliness that no one but herself would have readily chosen him for a lover. As this poor gentleman had remained solitary like herself, and as the unfortunate naturally seek each other’s society, he one day accosted Rolandine. There being a strong similitude between them in point of temperament and fortune, they poured their griefs into each other’s ears, and that was the beginning of a very intimate friendship between them. Seeing that they both laboured under the same misfortune, they everywhere sought each other out for mutual consolation, and thus they became more and more attached to each other to an extraordinary degree. Those who had known Rolandine so coy that she would hardly speak to any¬ one were shocked to see her every moment with the bastard, and told her gouvernante that she ought not to permit such long conversations. The gouvernante spoke to Rolandine on the subject, telling her that it was taken amiss that she should be on such familiar terms with a man who was neither rich enough to marry her, nor good-looking enough to be loved. Rolandine, who had hitherto been reproved for her austerity rather than for her mundane ways, replied, “You see, mother, that I cannot have a husband of my own quality. I have hitherto always attached myself to the young and good-looking ; but as I am afraid of falling into the pit into which I have seen so many fall, I now attach myself to this gentleman, who, as you know, is so correct and so "irtuous that he never talks to me but of seemly things. What harm, then, do I do to you, and to those who 136 7 he Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. make a talk about it, consoling my sorrows by means of an innocent converse ? ” The poor woman, who loved her mistress more than herself, made answer, “ I see plainly, mademoiselle, that you are right, and that your father and your mistress do not treat you as you deserve. But since this acquaintance gives rise to remarks which are not to the advantage of your honour, you ought to break it off, though the man were your own brother.” “ I will do so, since such is your advice,” replied Rolandine, weeping, “ but it is very hard to have no consolation in the world.” The bastard came to see her as usual, but, with tears in her eyes, she related to him in detail all that her gouvernante had said to her, and begged him not to visit her any more until this tattle should have subsided ; and he complied with her entreaty. Both of them having lost their consolation through this separation, they began to feel an uneasiness such as neither had ever before experienced. Her whole time was spent in prayer, fasting, and journeying ; for the sentiment of love, so totally new to her, caused her such agitation that she did not know a moment’s rest. The bastard was not in a much better plight; but as he had made up his mind to love her and try to obtain her for a wife, and saw that it would be a very glorious thing for him to succeed in the attempt, his only thought was how he should press his suit, and how he should secure the gouvernante in his interest. To this end he represented to her the deplorable condition of her mistress, who was wilfully deprived of all consolation. The good woman thanked him with tears for the interest he took in her mistress’s welfare, and cast about with him for means to enable him to have an interview with her. It was arranged between them that Rolandine should pretend to be troubled with a headache, which made all noise insupportable to her ; and that when her companions left her in her chamber, the bastard and she might remain alone, and converse together with¬ out restraint. The bastard, delighted with the expedient, gave himself up entirely to the guidance of the gouvernante, and in this way he was enabled to talk with his mistress whenever he pleased. But this pleasure was not of long duration ; for the queen, who disliked Rolandine, asked what she was doing in her chamber. Some one replied that she had a headache; but somebody else, either disliking her absence or wishing to cause her annoyance, said that the pleasure she took in conversing with V Novel 2 1.] Third Day. 137 the bastard would be sure to cure her headache. The queen, who regarded as mortal sins in Rolandine what would have been venial sins in others, sent for her, and forbade her ever to speak to the basta-d, except in her own chamber or hall. Rolandine professed obedience, and replied, that had she known that the bastard, or anyone else, was displeasing to her majesty, she would never have spoken to him. At the same time, she was inwardly resolved to find out some other expedient, of which the queen should know nothing. As she fasted on Wednesdays,. Fridays, and Saturdays, and did not quit her chamber, she took care to be visited on those days by the bastard, whom she was beginning to love greatly, and had time to talk with him in presence of her gouvernante whilst the others were at supper. The less time they had at their disposal, the more fervid and impassioned was their language ; for they stole the time for mutual conversation, as the thief steals something precious. But there is no secret which is not found out at last. A varlet, having seen the bastard come in one day, mentioned it in a place where it failed not to be repeated, till it reached the ears of the queen, who put herself into such a towering passion that the bastard never afterwards durst enter the chamber of the demoiselles. He often pretended to go a journey, in order to have opportunity to see the object of his affections, and every evening he used to return to the chapel of the chateau, dressed someiimes as a Cordelier, sometimes as a Jacobin, and always so well disguised that no one knew him except Rolandine and her gouvernante, who failed not at once to accost the good father. The bastard, feeling assured that Rolandine loved him, did not scruple to say to her one day, “ You see, mademoiselle, to what I expose myself for your service, and how the queen has forbidden you to speak to me. You see, too, that nothing is further from your father’s thoughts than disposing of you in marriage. He has refused so many good offers that I know no one far or near who can have you. I know that I am poor, and that you could not marry a gentleman who was not richer than myself; but if 10 have a great deal of love were to be rich. I should think myself the most opulent man in the world. God has given you great wealth, and the expectation of still greater. If I were so happy as to be chosen by you for your husband, I would be all my life your spouse, your friend, and your servant. If you marry one who is your own equal—and such a one, I think, will not easily be found—he will insist on being the «38 TJie Hepta?neron of the Queen of Navarre. master, and will have more regard to your wealth than to your person, to beauty than to virtue ; he will enjoy your wealth, and will not treat you as you deserve. My longing to enjoy this contentment, and my fear that you will have none with another, oblige me to entreat that you will make me happy, and yourself the best-satisfied and best-treated wife in the world.” Rolandine, hearing from her lover’s lips the declaration she had made up her mind to address to him, replied, with a glad face, “ I rejoice that you have anticipated me, and have said to me what I have long resolved to say to you. Ever since I have known you, now two years, not a moment has passed in which I_ have not thought over all the arguments that could be adduced in your favour and against you ; but at last, having resolved to engage in matrimony, it is time that I should make a beginning, and choose the man with whom I think I can pass my life with most quiet and satisfaction. I have had as suitors men of good figure, wealthy, and of high birth ; but you are the only one with whom it seems to me that my heart and mind can best agree. I know that in marrying you I do not offend God, but that, on the contrary, I do what he commands. As for my father, he has so much neglected the duty of establishing me, and has rejected so many opportunities, that the law empowers me to marry with¬ out his having a right to disinherit me ; but even should I have nothing but what belongs to myself, I shall esteem myself the happiest woman in the world in having such a husband as you. As for the queen, my mistress, I need make no scruple of dis¬ obeying her to obey God, since she has not scrupled to frustrate all the advantages that offered themselves to me during my youth. But to prove to you that my love for you is founded on honour and virtue, I require your promise that, in case I consent to the marriage you propose, you will not ask to consummate it until after the death of my father, or until I shall have found means to obtain his consent.” The bastard having promised this with alacrity, they gave each other a ring in pledge of marriage, and exchanged kisses in the church before God, whom they ca led to witness their mutual promise ; and never afterwards was there anything between them of a more intimate nature than kisses. This slight satisfaction quite contented these two perfect lovers, who were a long time without seeing each other, or ever giving way to mutual suspicion. There was hardly a place where honour was to be acquired to which the bastard did not repair, being assured that he could raever be poor, since God had bestowed on him a rich wife ; and Nwd 21.] Third Day. 139 she, during his absence, so faithfully preserved that perfect affection for him, that she made no account of any other man. There were some who sought her in marriage, and had for answer that, having been so long unmarried, she was resolved to remain so for ever. This reply obtained such publicity that it reached the ears of the queen, who asked her the reason of such language. Rolandine replied that it was dictated by obedience ; that she well knew her majesty had never chosen to marry her when very advantageous matches had offered ; and that age and patience had taught her to be content with her present cond'tion. Whenever marriage was mentioned to her, she always replied to the same effect. The war being ended, and the bastard having returned to court, she did not speak to him before others, but always in the church under pretext of confession, for the queen had for¬ bidden both of them, on pain of their lives, ever to converse except in public. But virtuous love, which fears no prohibitions, was more ingenious in suggesting to them means and opportunity to meet and converse than their enemies in hindering them. There was no monastic habit which the bastard did not suc¬ cessively assume ; and by that means their intercourse was always agreeably maintained, until the king went to one of his country seats near Tours, which was so situated that the ladies could not go on foot to any other church than that of the chateau, which had such an exposed confessional that the confessor would have easily been recognized. But as often as one opportunity failed them, love furnished them with another. At that very time there came to the court a lady nearly related to the bastard. She and her son were lodged in the king’s residence ; and the young prince had a projecting chamber, detached as it were from the king’s apartments, and so placed that from his window one could see and speak to Rolandine, their windows being exactly at the angle of the main building and the wing. The chamber which was over the king’s hall was that of Rolandine and the other ladies of honour. Rolandine, having frequently seen the young prince at the window, sent word of the fact by her gouvernante to the bastard. The latter, having reconnoitred the ground, pretended to take great pleasure in reading the book of the Knights of tne Round Table, which was one of those belonging to the prince ; and towards dinner-hour he used to beg a valet- de-chambre to let him in, and leave him shut up in the chamber to finish reading his book. The valet, knowing him to be his master’s relation, and a gentleman to be trusted, let him read as 140 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. much as he pleased. Rolandine, on her part, used to come ic hei window, and in order to be free to remain there the longer, she pretended to have a sore leg ; and she took her meals so early that she had no need to go to the table of the ladies of honour. She also bethought her of working at a crimson silk coverlet, which she hung at the window, where she was very glad to be left alone to converse with her husband, who spoke in such a manner that no one could ovehear them. When he saw anyone coming she coughed, and made signs to the bastard to retire. Those who had orders to watch them were persuaded that there was no love between them, for she never quitted a chamber in which he certainly could not see her, the entrde being forbidden him. The mother of the young prince, being one day in her son’s chamber, placed herself at the window where lay the big book. Presently one of Rolandine’s companions in office, who was at the window of their chamber, saluted the lady. The latter asked her how Rolandine was. The other replied that she should see her if she pleased, and made her come to the window in her nightcap. After some conversation about Rolandine’s illness, both parties retired. The lady casting her eyes on the big book of the Round Table, said to the valet-de-chambre who had charge of it, “ I am astonished that young people give up their time to reading such follies.” The valet-de-chambre replied that he was still more surprised that persons of ripe years, and who passed for sensible people, were more attached to them than the young ; and thereupon he told her, as a curious fact, how the bastard, her relation, spent four or five hours everyday in reading that book. The lady at once guessed the reason, and ordered ihe valet-de-chambre to conceal himself, and watch narrowly what the bastard did. The valet-de-chambre executed his commision, and found that, instead of reading, the bastard planted himself at the window, and that Rolandine came and talked with him. He even overheard many expressions of their love, which they thought they had so well concealed. Next day, the valet having told his mistress what he had seen and heard, she sent for her cousin, the bastard, and after some sharp remon¬ strances, forbade him evermore to place himself at that window. In the evening she spoke to Rolandine, and threatened she would inform the queen if she persisted in that foolish attachment. Rolandine, without losing her presence of mind, replied that, whatever the lady might have been told, she had not spoken to the bastard since she had been prohibited from doing so by her mistress, as her companions and her servants could witness. As Novel 21.] Third Day. 141 for the window of which the lady spoke, she had never talked there with the bastard. The lover, now fearing lest his intrigue should be exposed, with¬ drew from the danger, and absented himself for a long time from court, but not without writing to Rolandine, which he managed to do with such address that, in spite of all the queen could do, Rolandine heard from him twice a week. In the first instance he employed a monk to convey his letters ; but this means failing, he sent a little page, dressed sometimes in one colour, sometimes in another. The page used to post himself at the places through which the ladies passed, and, mingling with the other servants, found means always to deliver his letters to Rolandine. The queen going into the country, one of those persons whom she had charged to be on the watch regarding this affair recognized the page, and ran after him ; but the page, who was a cunning lad, darted into the house of a poor woman, who was boiling her pot, and instantly thrust his letters into the fire. The gentleman who pursued him, having caught and stripped him naked, searched him all over, but, finding nothing, let him go. When the page was gone, the good woman asked the gentleman why he had searched the poor boy in that manner. He replied that it was because he believed the boy had letters about him. “You were not likely to find them,” she said : “ he had hidden them too well.” “ Where, pray ? ” inquired the gentleman, who now made sure of having them. He was quite confounded when he heard that they were burnt, and saw that the page had been too clever for him. However, he went at once, and told the queen what he had ascertained. The bastard, not being able to employ the page any more, sent in his stead an old domestic, who, without caring for the threats of death which he well knew the queen had proclaimed against all who should meddle in this affair, undertook to convey the letters to Rolandine. Having entered the chateau, he stationed himself at a door which was at the foot of a great staircase used by all the ladies, but a valet, who had formerly known him, recognized him at once, and denounced him to the queen’s maitre d’ hotel, who gave orders for his instant arrest. The wary servant, seeing that he was watched, turned to the wall, under a certain pretence, tore his letters into the smallest possible pieces, and threw them be¬ hind the door. Immediately afterwards he was arrested and searched, but nothing being found on him, he was interrogated upon oath as to whether he had not carried letters. Nothing was left untried in the way of promises or threats to make him confess 142 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarrt. the truth, but, in spite of all they could do, they could never get anything out of him. The unsatisfactory result was reported to the queen ; but some one having thought of looking behind the door, found there the fragments of the letters. The king’s con¬ fessor was sent for ; and having arranged all the pieces on a table he read the whole of the letter, in which the secret marriage was plainly revealed, for the bastard called Rolandine his wife. The queen, who was not of a humour to conceal her neighbour’s fault, made a great noise about the matter; and insisted on every means being employed to make the man confess the truth respecting the letter, the identity of which he could not deny ; but say to him or show him what they would, there was no possibility of making him avow anything. Those who had been com¬ missioned in this matter took him to the edge of the river, and put him into a sack, telling him that he lied to God and the queen, contrary to the proved truth. Choosing rather to die than to betray his master, he asked for a confessor, and after having set his conscience right, he said to them, “ I pray you, sir, to tell the bastard, my master, that I commend to him my wife and my children, and that I die with a good heart for his service. Do with me what you please, and be assured that you will never ex¬ tract anything from me to my master’s disadvantage.” Then, to frighten him more, they threw him into the water, shut up as he was in the sack, and shouted to him that his life should be saved if he would speak the truth ; but seeing that he made no reply, they took him out of the water, and reported his firm behaviour to the queen. “ Neither the king nor myself,” said her majesty t “is so fortunate in servants as the bastard, who has not where¬ withal to reward them.” She did all she could to engage the worthy fellow in her service, but he would never quit his master, until the latter permitted him to enter the service of the queen, in which he lived happy and contented. Having discovered the secret marriage by means of the in¬ tercepted letter, the queen sent for Rolandine, and with great violence of manner called her several times wretch instead ol cousin, upbraiding her with the dishonour she had done to her house, and to her who was her mistress, in having thus married without her consent. Rolandine, who was long aware of the little kindness the queen entertained for her, fully returned that feeling. As there was no love between them, fear no longer availed ; and as Rolandine saw plainly that a reprimand so publicly given was prompted less by regard for her than by the wish to put her to shame, and that the queen was more pleased Novel 2id\ Third Day. 14 3 in mortifying her than grieved to find her in fault, she replied, with an air as calm and composed as that of the queen was agitated and passionate, “ If you did not know your own heart, madam, I would set before you the bad feeling you have long entertained towards my father and me ; but you know it so well, that you will not be surprised to hear that it is not a secret for anybody. For my part, madam, I have seen and felt it to my cost. If you had been as kind to me as to those who are not so nearly related to you, I should now be married in a manner that would do honour both to you and to me ; but you have forsaken me, and not shown me the least mark of favour, so that I have missed all the good offers I have had through my father’s negligence and the little account you have made of me. This unkind treatment threw me into such despair that, if my health had been strong enough to endure the austerities of a convent, I would gladly have entered one to escape from the continual vexations which your harshness caused me. In the midst of this despondency I became aquainted with one who would be of as good a house as myself, if the love of two persons was as much esteemed as the matrimonial ring ; for you know that his father would take precedence of mine. He has long loved and cheered me ; but you, madam, who have never for¬ given me the least fault, or praised any good act I may have done, though you knew by experience it was not my wont to talk of love and mundane vanities, and that I lived a more religious life than any other of your servants, you have not hesi¬ tated from the first to take offence at my speaking to a gentle¬ man as unfortunate as myself, and in whose friendship I sought nothing else than consolation of mind. When I saw that I was entirely deprived of this, my despair was so great that I resolved to seek my repose with as much solicitude as you took to deprive me of it. From that very hour we interchanged promises of marriage which were sealed with a ring. It seems to me, then, madam, that you wrong me in calling me wicked. The great and perfect friendship which subsists between the bastard and myself would have given me occasion to do wrong if I had been so disposed, yet we have never gone further than kissing, it being my conviction that God would do me the grace to obtain my father’s consent before the consummation of our marriage. J have done nothing against God or against my conscience. I have waited till the age of thirty to see what you and my father would do for me ; and my youth has been passed in such chas¬ tity and virtue that no one in the world can justly cast the least 544 Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre . reproach upon me in that respect. Finding myself on the decline, and without the hope of obtaining a husband of my own rank, reason determined me to take one according to m/taste, not for the lust of the eyes, for, as you know, he whom I have chosen is not comely ; nor yet for that of the flesh, since there has been no consummation ; nor for the pride and ambition of this life, for he is poor, and of little preferment; but I have had regard purely and simply to the virtue and good qualities he possesses, as to which all the world is constrained to do him justice, and to the great love he has for me, which affords me the hope of enjoying quiet and contentment with him. After having maturely considered the good and the evil which might result to me, I took the course which appeared to me the best, and finally resolved, after two years’ examination, to end my life with him ; and this I so fully resolved that no torments which could be inflicted upon me, nor death itself, could make me change my purpose. So, madam, I beseech you to excuse in me what is highly excusable, as you very well know, and leave me to enjoy the prace and quiet I expect to find with him.” The queen, unable to make any reasonable reply to language so resolute and so true, could only renew her passionate chiding and abuse, and bursting into tears, “Wretch,” she said, “ instead of humbling yourself, and testifying repentance for the fault you have committed, you sp^-ak with audacity, and, instead of blush¬ ing, you do not so much as shed one tear ; thereby giving plain proof of your obstinacy and hardness of heart. But if the king and your father do as I would have them, they will put you in a place where you will be constrained to hold other language.” “ Since you accuse me, madam, of speaking with audacity,” replied Rolandine, “ I am resolved to say no more, ufiiess you are pleased to permit me to speak.” The queen having given her permission, she continued : “ It is not for me, madam, to speak to you with audacity. As you are my mistress, and the greatest princess in Christendom, I must always entertain for you the respect which is your due ; and it has never been my intention to depart from it. But as I have no advocate but the truth, and as it is known to myself alone, I am obliged to speak it boldly, in the hope that if I have the good fortune to make you thoroughly cognisant of it, you will not believe me to be such as you have been pleased to call me. I am not afraid that any mortal creature should know in what manner I have con¬ ducted myself in the affair which is laid to my charge, for I know toat i have not done anything contrary either to God or to my tfcvel si.] 'Third Day, 145 honour. This, madam, is what makes me speak without fear, being well assured that He who sees my heart is with me ; and with such a judge on my side, I should be wrong to fear those who are subject to his judgment. Wherefore should I weep, madam, since honour and conscience do not upbraid me ? As to repentance, madam, I am so far from repenting of what I have done that were it to be done again, I would do it. It is you, madam, who have great reason to weep, both for the wrong you have done me in the past, and for that which you now do me in censuring me publicly for a fault of which you are more guilty than I. If I had offended God, the king, you, my kin¬ dred, and my conscience, I ought to testify my repentance by my tears ; but I ought not to w r eep for having done an act that is good, just, and holy, which would never have been spoken of but with honour, if you, madam, had not prematurely divulged it, and given it an air of culpability ; thereby plainly showing that you are bent on dishonouring me than on preserving the honour of your house and your kindred. But since it is your pleasure, madam, to act thus, it is not for me to gainsay you. Innocent as I am, I shall feel no less pleasure in submitting to the punishment you may choose to inflict upon me than you in imposing it. You and my father, madam, have but to say what you desire that I should suffer, and you shall be promptly obeyed. I reckon upon it, madam, that he will not be back¬ ward in this ; and I shall be very glad if he will share your sentiments, and if, after having agreed with you in the negli¬ gence he has shown in providing for my welfare, he imitates your activity now that the question is how to do me harm. But I have another Father in Heaven, who, I hope, will give me patience to endure the evils I see you are preparing for me ; ana it is in Him alone I put my whole trust.” The queen, bursting with rage, gave orders that Rolandine should be taken out of her sight, and shut up alone in a chamber where she should not be allowed to speak to anyone. Nevertheless, her gouvernante was left with her, and through her it was that Rolandine made known her present condition to the bastard, asking his advice at the same time as to what she should do. The bastard, believing that the services he had rendered to the king would be counted for something, repaired at once to the court. He found the king at the chase, told him the truth of the matter, rer.inded him of his poverty, and besought his majesty to appea e the queen and permit the con¬ summation of the marriage. The king made no other reply (46 TJie Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. than to say, “ Do you assure me that you have married her ? ” “Yes, sire,” replied the bastard, “by words and by presents only ; but if your majesty pleases, the ceremony shall be completed.” The king looked down, and without saying another word returned to the chateau. On arriving there, he called for the captain of his guards, and ordered him to arrest the bastard. However, one of the friends of the latter, who guessed the king’s intention, sent him warning to get out of the way, and retire to one of his houses which was not far off, promising that it the king should send in search of him, as he expected would be the case, he should have prompt notice, so that he might quit the kingdom ; and that, should matters be more favourable, he would send him word to return. The bastard took his friend’s advice, and made such good speed that the captain of the guards did not find him. Meanwhile, the king and queen having conferred together as to what should be done with the poor lady who had the honour to be their relation, it was decided, at the queen’s suggestion, that she should be sent back to her father, who should be made acquainted with the truth of the matter. Before she went away, several ecclesiastics and people of sage counsel went to see her, and represented to her that, being engaged only by word of mouth, the marriage could easily be dissolved, provided both parties were willing, and that it was the king’s pleasure she should do so, for the honour of the house to which she belonged ; but she replied that she was ready to obey the king in all things, provided conscience was not implicated ; but what God had joined, men could not put asunder. She besought them not to ask of her a thing so unreasonable. “ If the love and the good¬ will which are founded only on the fear of God,” she added, “ are a true and solid bond of marriage, then am I so closely bound that neither steel, nor fire, nor water can loose me. Death alone can do so, and to it alone will I surrender my ring and my oath ; so, gentlemen, I beg you will say no more to me on the subject.” She had so much steadfastness, that she would rather die, and keep her word, than live after having broken it. This resolute reply was reported to the king, who, seeing that it was impossible to detach her from her husband, gave orders that she should be taken away to her father’s ; and thither she was carried, with such little ceremony or regard to her quality, that none who saw how she was treated could V Novel 2i.J Third Day. 147 restrain their tears. She had transgressed, indeed ; but het punishment was so great, and her fortitude so singular, that they made her fault seem a virtue. Her father, on hearing this disagreeable news, would not see his daughter, but sent her away to a castle situated in a forest, and which he had formerly built for a reason well worthy to be narrated. There she was for a long time a prisoner, and every day she was told, by her father’s orders, that if she would renounce her husband he would treat her as his daughter, and set her at liberty. But nothing could shake her constmcy. One would have thought she made pleasant pastime of her sufferings, to see how cheer¬ fully she bore them for the sake of him she loved. What shall I say here of men ? The bastard, who was under such obligations to her, fled to Germany, where he had many friends, and showed by his inconstancy that he had attached himself to Rolandine through avarice and ambition rather than through real love ; for he became so enamoured of a German lady that he forgot to write to her who was suffering so much for his sake. However cruel fortune was towards them, she yet left it always in their power to write to each other ; but this sole comfort was lost through the bastard’s inconstancy and negli¬ gence, whereat Rolandine was distressed beyond measure. The few letters he did write were so cold and so different from those she had formerly received from him, that she felt assured some new amour had deprived her of her husband’s heart, and done what vexations and persecutions had been incapable of effecting. But her love for him was too great to allow of her taking any decisive step on mere conjectures. In order, therefore, to know the truth, she found means to send a trusty person, not to carry any letters or messages to him, but to observe him, and make careful inquiries. This envoy, on his return, informed her that the bastard was deeply in love with a German lady, and that it was said she was very rich, and that he wished to marry her. So extreme was poor Rolandine’s affliction on learning this news that she fell into a dangerous illness. Those who were aware of its cause told her, on the part of her father, that since the bastard’s inconstant and dastardly behaviour were known, she had a perfect right to abandon him ; and they tried hard to persuade her to do so. But it was in vain they tormented her ; she remained unchanged to the end, displaying alike the great¬ ness of her love and of her virtue. In proportion as the bastard's love diminished, Rolandine’s augmented, the latter gaining as it were all that the former lost. Feeling that in her 148 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. bosom alone was lodged all the love that had formerly dwelt in two, she resolved to cherish it until the death of the one or the other. ♦ The divine goodness, which is perfect charity and true love, took pity on her sorrows, and had so much regard for her patience that the bastard died soon after, in the midst of his wooing of another woman. The news being brought her by persons who had been present at his burial, she sent to her father, begging he would be so good as to allow her to say a few words to him. Her father, who had never spoken to her during the whole time of her captivity, went to her forthwith. After having heard her plead her justification at very great length, instead of condemning and thinking of killing her, as he had often threatened, he embraced her, and said, with swimming eyes, “ You are more just than I, my daughter ; for if you have committed a fault, I am the principal cause of it. But since it has pleased God that things should happen thus, I will try to mak-i amends for the past.” Accordingly, he took her home, and treated her as his eldest daughter. A gentleman who bore the name and the arms of the family at last sought her in marriage. This gentleman, who was very prudent and virtuous, often saw Rolandine, and conceived so much esteem for her that he praised her for what others blamed, persuaded as he was that she acted only upon virtuous principles. The chevalier being liked both bv the father and the daughter, the marriage was forthwith concluded. It is true that a brother she had, and who w r as the father’s sole heir, would never give her a portion of the family wealth, under pretext that she had been wanting in obedience to her father ; after whose death he treated her so cruelly that she and her husband, who was a younger son, found it a hard matter to subsist. But God pro¬ vided a remedy, for the brother, who wished to retain all, died, leaving behind him both his own wealth and that of his sister, which he unjustly retained. By this means Rolandine and her husband were raised to great affluence. They lived honourably, according to their quality, were grateful for the favours bestowed on them by Providence, had much love for one another, and, after they had brought up two sons, with whom it pleased God to bless their marriage, Rolandine joyfully yielded up her soul to Him in whom she had always put her whole trust.* * The Bibliophiles Frar>9ais have clearly enough identified the persons in this story. The Queen of France is the celebrated Anne of Bretagne, wife of Charles VIII. and of Louis XTT. Rolandine is Anna de Rohan, third chili V Novel 21.] Third Day. 149 Ladies, let the men who regard us as inconstancy’s very self show us a husband like the wife of whom I have been telling you, one who had the same goodness, fidelity, and constancy. 1 am suie they will find the task so very hard that I will acquit them of it altogether, rather than put them tc such infinite pain. As for you, ladies, I beg that, for the maintenance of your dig¬ nity, you will either not love at all, or love as perfectly as this demoiselle. Do not say that she exposed her honour, since by her firmness she has been the means of so augmenting ours. “ It is true, Oisille,” said Parlamente, “that your heroine was a woman of a very lofty spirit, and the more commendable for her steadfastness as she had to do with an unfaithful husband, who wished to quit her for another.” “ That, I think,” said Longarine, “ must have been the hardest thing for her to bear; for there is no burden so heavy which the love of two persons who are truly united may not bear with ease and comfort; but when one of the two deserts his duty, and leaves the whole burden to the other, the weight becomes in¬ supportable.” “You ought then to have pity on us,” said Geburon, “since we have to bear the whole weight of love, and you will not so much as help with a finger-end to ease the burden.” “ The burdens of the man and of the woman are often different,” observed Parlamente. “ The wife’s love, founded on piety and virtue, is so just and reasonable, that he who is un¬ true to the duties of such a friendship ought to be regarded as a dastard, and wicked in the sight of God and man. But as men love only with a view to pleasure, women, who in their ignorance are always the dupes of wicked men, often engage themselves too deeply in a commerce of tenderness ; but when God makes known to them the criminal intentions of those whom they supposed to entertain none but good ones, they may break off with honour, . and without damage to their reputation, for the shortest follies are always the best.” “That is a mere whim of your own,” said Hircan, “to assert that virtuous women may honourably cease to love men, whilst and eldest daughter of Jean II., Viscount of Rohan, Count of Porhoet, Leon, and La Garnache. She married, in 1517, Pierrede Rohan, Baron of Frontenay, by whom she had two sons. The bastard appears to have been Jean, Bastard of AngoulSme, legitimised in 1458 by Charles ViL; and the lady, the mother of the young prince, who forbade the bastard to continue his interviews with Rolandine at the window, and who m 1st, therefore, have had a certain right to command him, was probably Louise of Savoy. 150 The Heptamero 7 i of the Queen of Navarre. the latter may not in like manner cease to love women ; as if the heart of the one sex was different from that of the other. For my part, I am persuaded that, in spite of diversity in faces and dresses, the inclinations of both are the same ; the only dif¬ ference is that the more hidden guilt is the worse." “ I am very well aware," said Parlamente, with some anger, “ that in your opinion the least guilty women are those whose guilt is known." “ Let us change the subject," interrupted Simontault, “ and dismiss that of the heart of man and of woman by saying that the best of them is good for nothing. Let us see to whom Par¬ lamente will give her voice." “To Geburon,” she said. “ Since I have begun with mentioning the Cordeliers," said he, “ I must not forget the monks of St. Benedict, and cannot for¬ bear relating what happened in my time to two of these good fathers ; at the same time, let not what I am going to tell you of a wicked monk hinder you from having a good opinion of those that deserve it. But as the Psalmist says that all meti are liars , and that there is none that worketh righteousness , no not one , it seems to me that one cannot fail to esteem a man such as he is. In fact, if there is good in him, it is to be attributed, not to the creature but to Him who is the principle and the source of all good. Most people deceive themselves in giving too much to the creature, or in too much esteeming themselves. And that you may not sup¬ pose it impossible to find extreme concupiscence under an extreme austerity, 1 will relate to you a fact which happened in the time of King Francis I." NOVEL XXII. A prior tries every means to seduce a nun, but at last his villainy is discovered. HERE was at St. Martin-des-Champs, at Paris, a prior, whose name I will not mention, because of the friend¬ ship I once bore him. He led so austere a life until the age of fifty, and the fame of his sanctity was so strong throughout the kingdom, that there was no prince or princess who did not receive him with veneration when he paid them a visit. No monastic reform was effected in which he had not part ; and he received the name of the “ Father of true monas- ticism.” He was elected visitor of the celebrated society of the Ncvd 22.] Third Day . i§i Ladies of Fontevrault, who were in so much awe of him that when he came to any of their convents the nuns trembled with fear, and treated him just as they might have treated the king, hoping thereby to soften his rigour towards them. At first, he did not wish that such deference should be paid him ; but as he approached his fifty-fifth year, he at last came to like the honours he had refused in the beginning; and coming by degrees to regard himself as the public property of the religious societies, he was more careful to preserve his health than he had been. Though he was bound by the rules of his order never to eat meat, he granted himself a dispensation in that respect, a thing he would never do for anyone else, alleging as his reason that the whole burden of the brethren’s spiritual interests rested upon him. Accordingly, he pampered himself, and to such good purpose that from being a very lean monk he became a very fat one. With the change in his manner of living a change took place in his heart also, and he began to look at faces on which he had before made it matter of conscience to cast his eyes casually. By dint of looking at beauties, rendered more desirable by their veils, he began to lust after them. In order to satisfy his unholy passion he changed from a shepherd into a wolf; and if he found an Agnes in any of the convents under his jurisdiction, he failed not to corrupt her. After he had long led this wicked life, Divine goodness, taking pity on the poor misused sheep, was pleased to unmask the villain, as you shall hear. He had gone one day to visit a convent near Paris named Gif, and while he was confessing the nuns, there came before him one named Sister Marie Herouet, whose sweet and pleasing voice indicated that her face and heart were not less so. The mere sound inspired the good father with a passion exceeding all he had ever felt for other nuns. In speaking to her he stooped down to look at her, and seeing her mouth so rosy and charming, he could not help lifting up her veil to satisfy himself if her eyes corresponded to the beauty of her lips. He found what he sought, and noted it so well that his heart became filled with a most vehement ardour ; he lost his appetite for food and drink, and even all countenance, in spite of his efforts to dissemble. On his return to his priory there was no rest for him. He passed his days and nights in extreme disquietude, his mind continually occupied in devising means to gratify his passion, and make of this nun what he had made of so many others. As he had observed that she possessed steadiness of 152 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. character and quickness of perception, the thing appeared to him hard to accomplish. Conscious, moreover, that he was ugly and old-looking, he resolved not to attempt to win her by soft words, but extort from her by fear what he could not hope to obtain for love. With this intention, he returned a few days after to the con¬ vent of Gif, and displayed more austerity there than ever he had done before, angrily rating all the nuns. One did not wear her veil low enough ; another carried her head too high ; another did not make obeisance properly like a nun. So severe was he with regard to all these trifles, that he seemed as terrible as the picture of God on the day of judgment. Being gouty, he was much fatigued in visiting all the parts of the convent, and it was about the hour of vespers (an hour assigned by himself) that he reached the dormitory. The abbess told him it was time to say vespers. “ Have them said, mother,” replied the prior, “ for I am so tired that I will remain here, not to repose, but to speak to Sister Marie about a scandalous thing I hear of her ; for I am told that she babbles like a worldling.” The prioress, who was aunt to Sister Marie’s mother, begged that he would chapter her soundly, and left her in the hands of the prior, quite alone, except that a young monk was with him. Left alone with Sister Marie, he began by lifting up her veil, and bidding her look in his face.’ Sister Marie replied that her rule forbade her to look at men. “ That is well said, my daughter,” said the prior, “but you are not to believe that monks are men.” For fear, then, of being guilty of disobedience, Sister Marie looked at him, and thought him so ugly that it seemed to her more a penance than a sin to look at him. The reverend father, after talking of the love he bore her, wanted to put his hands on her breasts. She repulsed him as she ought ; and the reverend father, vexed at so untoward a beginning, exclaimed in great anger, “What business has a nun to know that she has breasts?” “ I know that I have,” replied Sister Marie ; “ and I am very certain that neither you nor anyone else shall ever touch them. 1 am neither young enough nor ignorant enough not to know what is a sin and what is not so.” Seeing, then, that he could not compass his designs in that way, he had recourse to another expedient, and said, “ I must declare my infirmity to you, my daughter.; I have a malady which all the physicians deem incurable, unless I delight myself with a woman whom I passionately love. I would not for my V Novel 22. Third Day. 153 life commit a mortal sin ; but even should it come to that, I know that simple fornication is not to be compared to the sin of homicide. So if you love my life, you will hinder me from dying, and save your own conscience.” She asked him what sort of diversion it was that he contem¬ plated ; to which he replied that she might rest her conscience on his, and he assured her that he would do nothing which would leave any weight on either. To let her judge by the pre¬ liminaries what sort of pastime it was he asked of her, he embraced her and tried to throw her on a bed. Making no doubt then of his wicked intention, she cried out, and defended herself so well that he could only touch her clothes. Seeing, then, that all his devices and efforts were fruitless, like—I will not say a madman, but like a man without conscience or reason, he put his hand under her robe, and scratched all that came under his nails with such fury that the poor girl, shrieking with all her might, fell in a faint. The abbess, hearing her cries, ran to the dormitory, reproaching herself for having left her relation alone with the reverend father. She stood for a moment at the door to listen, but, hearing her niece’s voice, she pushed open the door, which was held by the young monk. When she entered the dormitory, the prior, pointing to her niece, said, “ You did wrong, mother, not to acquaint me with Sister Marie’s constitution : for, not knowing her weakness, I made her stand before me, and while I was reprimanding her, she fainted away, as you see.” Vinegar and other remedies being applied, Sister Marie re- coverrd from her faint; and the prior, fearing lest she should tell her aunt the cause of it, foundVneans to whisper in her car, I command you, my daughter, on pain of disobedience and eternal damnation, never to speak of what I have done to you. It was my great love for you that made me do it; but since I see that you will not respond to my passion, I will never mention it to you while I live. I may, however, assure you, for the last time, that if you will love me I will have you chosen abbess of one of the best abbeys in this kingdom.” She replied that she would rather die in perpetual imprison¬ ment than ever have any other friend than Him who had died for her on the cross ; deeming herself happier in suffering all ills with Him than in enjoying without Him all the pleasures the world can afford. She warned him once for all not to speak to her any more in that manner, if he did not wish her to com¬ plain of it to the abbess; but if he desisted, she would say 154 Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. nothing - of what was past. Before this bad shepherd with¬ drew, in order to appear quite different from what he was in reality, and to have the pleasure of again gazing on her he loved, he turned to the abbess and said, “ I beg, mother, that you will make all your daughters sing a Salve Regma in honour of the Virgin, in whom I rest my hope.” The Salve Regina was sung ; and all the while the fox did nothing but weep, not with devotion, but with regret at having so ill succeeded. The nuns, who attributed his emotion to the love he felt for the Virgin Mary, regarded him as a saint; but Sister Marie, who knew his hypocrisy, prayed to God in her heart to confound a villain who had such contempt for virginity. The hypocrite returned to St. Martin’s, carrying with him the criminal fire which consumed him day and night, and occupied his mind only in trying to find means for accomplishing his unrighteous end. Being afraid of the abbess, whose virtue he was aware of, he thought he could not do better than remove her from that convent. With that view, he went to Madame de Vendome, who was then residing at La F&re, Adhere she had built and endowed a convent of the order of St. Benedict, named Mont d’Olivet. In his professed character of a sovereign reformer, he represented to her that the abbess of Mont d’Olivet was not capable of governing such a community. The good lady begged him to name one who should be worthy to fill that office. This was just what he wanted, and he at once recom¬ mended her to take the abbess of Gif, whom he depicted to her as the abbess of the greatest capacity in France. Madame de Vendome sent for her forthwith, and gave her the government of her convent of Mont d’Olivet; whilst the prior, who commanded the suffrages of all the communities, had one who was devoted to him elected abbess of Gif. This being done, he went to the convent to try once more if by prayers or promises he could prevail over Sister Marie. He succeeded no better than the first time, and returning in despair to St. Martin’s, he there contrived more villany. As much with a view to accomplish his original purpose as to be revenged on the uncomplying nun, and for fear the affair should obtain publicity, he had the relics stolen from the convent of Gif by night, accused the confessor of the convent, an aged and worthy monk, of having committed the theft, and imprisoned him at St. Martin’s. Whilst he kept him there he suborned two witnesses, who deposed that they had seen the confessor and Sister Marie committing an infamous and indecent act in a V Novel 22.J Third Day . 155 garden; and this he wanted to make the old monk confess. The good man, who knew all the prior’s tricks, begged him to assemble the chapter, and said he would state truly all he knew in presence of the monks. This demand he look care not to grant, fearing lest the confessor’s justification should condemn himself; but finding the latter so invincibly steadfast, he treated him so ill that some say he died in prison ; others say that the prior forced him to unfrock and quit the realm. Be it as it may, he was never seen afterwards. The prior, having, as he thought, such a great hold on Sister Marie, went to Git, where the abbess his creature never disputed a word that fell from his lips. He began by exercising his authority as visitor, and summoned all the nuns one by one, that he might hear them in chamber in form of confession and visitation. Sister Marie, who had lost her good aunt, having at last appeared in her turn, he began by saying to her, “ You know r , Sister Marie, of what a crime you are accused ; and consequently you know that the great chastity you affect has availed you nothing, for it is very well known that you are any¬ thing but chaste.” “ Produce my accuser,” replied Sister Marie, undauntedly, “ and you will see how he will maintain such a statement in my presence.” “ The confessor himself has been convicted of the fact, and that must be proof enough for you,” returned the prior. “ I believe him to be such a good man,” said Sister Marie, “ that he is incapable of confessing such a falsehood. But even should he have done so, set him before me and I will prove the contrary.” The prior, seeing she was not daunted, said, “ I am your father, and as such I wish to be tender with your honour; I leave the matter between you and your conscience, and will believe what you shall tell me. I conjure you then, on pain of mortal sin, to tell me the truth. Were you a virgin when you entered this house ? ” “My age at that time, father, is warrant tor my virginity. I was then but five years old.” “ And since then, my daughter, have you not lost that fair flcwer ?” She swore she had not, and that she had never undergone any temptation except from him. “I cannot believe it,” the hypocrite replied ; “it remains to be proved.” 156 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. " What proof do you require ?” “ That which I exact from other nuns. As I am the visito! of souls, so am I also of bodies. Your abbesses and prioresses have all passed through my hands, and you must not scruple to let me examine your virginity. Lay yourself on that bed, and turn the front of your robe over yot r face.” “ You have told me so much of your criminal Jove for me,” replied Sister Marie, indignantly, “ that I have reason to believe your intention is not so much to examine my virginity as to despoil me of it. So be assured I will never consent.” “You are excommunicated,” returned the prior, “to refuse obedience ; and unless you do as I bid you, I will dishonour you in full chapter, and will state all I know of you and the confessor.” Sister Marie, without suffering herself to be dismayed, replied that He who knew the hearts of his servants would be her stay. “ And since you carry your malevolence so far,” she said, “ I would rather be the victim of your cruelty than the accomplice of your criminal desires ; because I know that God is a just judge.” In a rage that may be more easily imagined than described, the prior hurried off to assemble the chapter. Summoning Sister Marie before him, he made her kneel, and thus addressed her: " It is with extreme grief, Sister Marie, that I see how the wholesome remonstrances which I have addressed to you on so capital a fault have been of no avail, and I am compelled with regret to impose a penance upon you contrary to my custom. I have examined your confessor touching certain crimes of which he was accused, and he has confessed to me that he has abused you, and that in a place where two witnesses depose to having seen you. Instead, then, of the honourable post of mistress of the novices in which I had placed you, I ordain that you be the lowest of all, and also that you eat your diet of bread and water on the ground in the presence of all the sisters, until you shall have merited pardon by your repentance.” Sister Marir, having been warned beforehand, by one of her companions who knew her whole affair, that if she made any reply which was displeasing to the prior he would put her in pace , that is, immure her for ever in a cell, heard her sentence without saying a word, raising her eyes to heaven, and praying that He who had given her the grace to resist sin, would give her the patience necessary to endure her sufferings. This was not all, The venerable prior further prohibited her speaking for three V Novel 22.] Third Day. 157 years to her mother or her relations, or writing any letter except¬ ing in community. After this the wretch went away and returned no more. The poor girl remained a long time in the condition prescribed by her sentence ; but her mother, who had a more tender affection for her than for her other children, was surprised at not hearing from her, and said to one of her sons that she believed her daughter was dead, and that the nuns concealed her death in order the longer to enjoy the annual payment made for her maintenance. She begged him to inquire into the matter, and see his sister, if it were possible. The brother went at once to the convent, was answered with the usual excuses, and was told that for three years his sister had not quitted her bed. The young man would not be put off with that reply, and swore that unless she were shown to him he would scale the walls and break into the convent. This threat so alarmed the nuns that they brought his sister to the grating ; but the abbess followed her so closely, that she could not speak to her brother without being heard by the good mother. But Sister Marie, having her wits about her, had taken the precaution beforehand to write down all the facts I have related, together with the details of a thousand other stratagems which the prior had employed to seduce her, and which, for the sake of brevity, I omit. I must not, however, forget to mention that, whilst her aunt was abbess, the prior, fancying it was on account of his ugliness he was repulsed, caused Sister Marie to be tempted by a young and handsome monk, hoping that, if she yielded to the latter for love, he himself might afterwards have his will of her through fear. But the young monk having accosted her in a garden, with words and gestures so infamous that I should be ashamed to repeat them, the poor girl ran to the abbess, who was talking with the prior, and cried to her, “ Mother, they are demons, and not monks, who come to visit us/’ Upon this the prior, afraid o( being discovered, said to the abbess, with a laugh, “ Certainly mother, Sister Marie is right.” He then took her band, and said, in presence of the abbess, “ I had heard that Sister Marie spoke very well, and with such facility as led people to believe that she was mundane. For this reason I have done violence to my nature, and have spoken to her as worldlings speak to women, so far as I know that language from books ; for in point of personal experience 1 am as ignorant as I was the day I was born. And as I attributed her virtue to my age and ugliness, I ordered my young monk to speak to her in the same 158 The Heptciineron of the Queen of Navarre. tone. She has made, as you see, a sage and virtuous resistance, I am pleased with her for it, and esteem her so highly, that henceforth I desire that she be the first after you, and the mistress of the novices, in order that her virtue may be fortified more and more.” The venerable prior did many feats of the same sort during the three years he was in love with the nun, who, as I have said, gave her brother a written narrative of her sad adventures through the grating. The brother carried the paper to his mother, who hurried distractedly to Paris, where she found the Queen of Navarre, only sister to the king, and laid this piteous tale before her, saying, “Put no more trust, madam, in these hypocrites. I thought I had placed my daughter on the outskirts of heaven, or at least on the way to it ; but I find I have placed her in hell, and in the hands of people worse than all the devils there ; for the devils tempt us only so far as we are ourselves consent¬ ing parties, but these wretches try to prevail over us by violence when they cannot do so by love.” The Queen of Navarre was greatly perplexed. She had implicit confidence in the prior of St. Martin’s, and had committed to his charge the abbesses of Montivilliers and of Caen, her sisters-in-law. On the other hand, the crime appeared to her so black and horrible, that she longed to avenge the poor innocent girl, and communicated the matter to the king’s chancellor, who was then legate in France.* The legate made the prior appear before him, and all that the latter could allege in excuse for himself was that he was seventy years of age. He appealed to the Queen of Navarre, beseech¬ ing, by all the pleasures she would ever wish to do him, and as the sole recompense of his past services, that she would have the goodness to put a stop to these proceedings, assuring her he would avow that Sister Marie Herouet was a pearl of honour and chastity. The queen was so astounded at this speech, that, not knowing how to reply to it, she turned her back upon him, and left him there. The poor monk, overwhelmed with con¬ fusion, retired to his monastery, where he never more would let himself be seen by anybody, and died a year afterwards. Sister Marie Herouet, esteemed as the virtues God had given her deserved, was taken from the abbey of Gif, where she had suffered so much, and was made by the king abbess of the abbey of Giy, near Montargis. She reformed the abbey which his * Antoine Duprat, cardinal-legate, chancellor of France, was appointed legate in 1530, and died 1535. The events related in this novel must have occurred between those years. V Novel 2 2.*] T*nrd Day. 1 55 majesty had given her, and lived like a saint, animated by the spirit of God, whom she praised all her life long for the repose He had procured her, and the dignity with which He had invested her.* There, ladies, is a story which well confirms what St. Paul says to the Corinthians, that God makes use of weak things to confound the strong, and of those who seem useless in men’s eyes to overthrow the glory and splendour of those who, thinking themselves something, are yet in reality nothing. There is no good in any man but what God puts into him by His grace ; and there is no temptation out of which one does not come victorious, when God grants aid. You see this by the confession of a monk, who was believed to be a good man, and by the elevation of a girl whom he wished to exhibit as criminal and wicked. In this we see the truth of our Lord’s saying, that “ He that exalteth himself shall be humbled, and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.” “ How many worthy people this monk deceived I ” said Oisille ; “ for I have seen how they trusted in him more than in God.” “ I should not have been one of those he deceived,” said Nomerfide, “ for I have such a horror of the very sight of a monk that I could not even confess to them, believing them to be worse than all other men, and never to frequent any house without leaving in it some shame or dissension.” “There are some good men amongst them,” said Oisille ; “and the wickedness of an individual ought not to be imputed to the whole body; but the best are those who least frequent secular houses and women.” “ That is very well said,” observed Ennasuite, “ for the less one sees and knows them the better one esteems them ; for upon more experience one comes to know their real nature.” “ Let us leave the monastery where it is,” said Nomerfide, ‘and see to whom Geburon will give his voice.” “To Madame Oisille,” replied Geburon, “ in order that she may tell us something in honour of the regular clergy.” “ We have pledged ourselves so strongly to speak the truth,” replied Oisille, “ that I could not undertake that task. Besides, * The prior who figures in this novel was Etienne Gentil, who became prior in 1508, and died in 1536. The abbey of St. Martin-des-Champs stood on tho site now occupied by the Conservatoire des Arts et Metiers. The church and the refectory are still standing i So The Heptameron of Vie Queen of Navarre . your tale reminded me of a piteous one, which 1 must relate to you, as I come from the neighbourhood of the country where the thing occurred in my own time. I choose this story of recent date, ladies, in order that the hypocrisy of those who believe themselves more religious than others may not so beguile you as to make your faith quit the right path, and induce you to hope for salvation in any other than Him who will have no companion in the work of our creation and redemption. He alone is almighty to save us in eternity and to comfort us in this life, and deliver us out of all our afflictions. You know that Satan often assumes the appearance of an angel of light, in order that the eye, deceived by the semblance of sanctity and devotion, may attach itself to the things it ought to shun.” NOVEL XXIII. A cordelier who was the cause of three murders, those of husband, wife, and child. N Perigord, there dwelt a gentleman whose devotion to St. Francis was such that he imagined all those who wore that saint’s habit were, as a matter of course, as holy as the sainted founder of their order. In honour of that good saint he fitted up a suite of apartments in his house to lodge the Franciscan monks, by whose advice he regulated all his affairs, even to the smallest household matters, thinking that he could not but walk safely when he followed such good guides. It happened that the wife of this gentleman, a handsome lady, and as virtuous as she was handsome, was delivered of a fine boy ; for which her husband, who already loved her much, now regarded her with redoubled affection. The better to entertain his wife, the gentleman sent for one of his brothers-in-law; and a Cordelier, whose name I shall conceal for the honour of the order, arrived also. The gentleman was very glad to see his spiritual father, from whom he had no secrets ; and after a long conversation between the lady, her brother, and the monk, they all sat down to supper. During the repast, the gentleman, looking wistfully at his lovely wife, said aloud to the good father, “ Is it true, father, that it is a mortal sin to be with one’s wife during the month of her confinement ? ,; The Cordelier, who was anything but what he seemed, replied, “ Certainly, sir ; I think it is one of the greatest sins that can be committed in marriage. I need only refer you to the example of V i6i the blessed Virgin, who would not enter the Temple till the day of her purification, though she had no need of that ceremony. This alone should teach you the indispensable necessity of ab¬ staining from this little pleasure, since the good Virgin Mary, in order to obey the law, abstained from going to the Temple, in which was her whole consolation. Besides, the physicians say that there is reason to fear for the children that might be begotten under such circumstances.” The gentleman, who had expected that the monk would give him permission to lie with his wife, was much annoyed at a reply so contrary to his hope ; however, he let the matter drop. The reverend father having drunk a little more than was reasonable during the conversation, cast his eyes on the lady, and concluded within himself that if he was her husband, he would lie with hei without asking anyone ; s advice. As the fire kindles little by little, and at last waxes so strong and fierce that it burns down the house, so the poor monk felt himself possessed with such vehement concupiscence, that he resolved all at once to satisfy the desire he had cherished in secret for three years. After the supper-things had been taken away, he took the gentleman by the hand, led him to the side of the bed, and said to him, in the pre¬ sence of his wife, “ Knowing, sir, as I do, the affection that sub¬ sists between you and mademoiselle, I compassionate the feelings with which your great youth inspires you both. Therefore I will impart to you a secret of our holy theology. You must know, then, that the law which is so rigorous on account of the abuses committed by indiscreet husbands, is not so strict with regard to husbands so prudent and moderate as you. Hence, sir, after having stated before others what is the severity of the law, I must tell you in private what is its mildness. Know, then, that there are women and women, as there are men and men. Before all things, then, it is necessary that mademoiselle, who has been delivered these three weeks, should tell you if her flux of blood has quite ceased.” The demoiselle replied very positively that it had. “ That being the case, my son,” resumed the Cordelier, “ I permit you to lie with her without scruple, on these two con¬ ditions : first, that you mention it to no one, and that you come to her secretly ; secondly, that you do not come to her until two hours after midnight, in order not to disturb your wife’s digestion.” The gentleman promised to observe both these conditions, and confirmed his promise by so strong an oath that the monk, who tfjvel 23.] Third Dav. 162 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. knew him to be more of a fool than a liar, did not doubt that he would keep his word. After a pretty long conversation, he bade them good night, gave them plenty of benedictions, and retired to his chamber. As he was leaving the room, he took the gen¬ tleman by the hand, and said, “ Certes, sir, it is time for you to retire also, and leave mademoiselle to repose.” The gentleman obeyed, and withdrew, telling his wife, in the good father’s pre- sence, to leave the door open. On reaching his chamber the good monk thought of anything but sleeping. As soon as he found that the house was all still, that is to say, about the hour when he was wont to go to matins, he went straight to the chamber where the gentleman was ex¬ pected. He found the door open, and having entered, he began by putting out the candle, and then got into bed to the lady as fast as he could. “My dear, this is not what you promised the good father,” said the demoiselle, who mistook him for her hus¬ band ; “you said you would not come here until two o’clock.” The Cordelier, who was more intent upon action than on con¬ templation, and was afraid, too, of being recognised if he spoke, made no reply, but proceeded at once to gratify the criminal passion which had long poisoned his heart ; whereat the demoi¬ selle was much astonished. The hour when the husband was to come being at hand, the Cordelier got out of bed, and returned to his chamber; but as love had before hindered him from sleeping, so now the fear that always follows crime allowed him no repose. He got up, went to the porter, and said, “ My friend, monsieur has commanded me to go back at once to our convent, where I am to put up prayers for him. So pray let me have my beast, and open the door for me without letting any¬ one know, for this business requires secrecy.” The porter, know¬ ing that to obey the Cordelier was to serve his master, opened the gate and let him out. At that moment the gentleman awoke, and seeing that it was near the time when he was to go to his wife, he wrapped his dressing-gown about him, and went to his wife's bed, whither he might have gone in accordance with God’s law without asking leave of anyone. His wife being ignorant of what had occurred, and finding her husband beside her, and hearing his voice, said to him, in surprise, “ What, sir ! is this the promise you made the good Cordelier, that you would be cautious of your health and mine ? Not content with having come hither before the time, you now come again. Do think better of it, I entreat you.” V Novel 23.] 'Third Day. 163 Confounded at being addressed in this manner, and unable to conceal his vexation, the husband replied, “ What is this you say? It is three weeks since I have been in bed with you, and you accuse me of coming to you too often. If you continue to talk to me in that strain, you will malet done, that is, to seek elsewhere the lawful pleasure you refuse me.” The lady, who thought he was joking, replied, “Do not de¬ ceive yourself, sir, in thinking to deceive me. Though you did not speak to me the first time you came, I knew very well that you were there.” The gentleman then perceived that they had both been duped, and solemnly vowed that he had not been there before ; and the wife, in an agony of grief, begged he would find out at once who it could be that had deceived her, since the only persons who had slept in the house were her broiher and the Cordelier. The hus¬ band's suspicions falling immediately on the latter, he ran to his chamber, and found it empty, To make sure whether or not he had fled, he called the porter, and asked if he knew what had - become of the Cordelier. The porter told him what had passed, and the poor gentleman, convinced of the monk’s villainy, went back to his wife, and said, “ Be assured, my dear, that person who lay with you and performed such feats was no other than our father confessor.” The lady, to whom honour had always been most precious, was so horror-stricken, that, forgetting all humanity and the natural gentleness of her sex, she entreated her husband on her knees to revenge her for such a cruel outrage ; whereupon he mounted his horse, and rode off in pursuit of the Cordelier. The wife, left alone in her bed, without anyone to counsel her, and without any consolation except her new-born babe, pondered over the hideous adventure which had befallen her, and making nc account of her ignorance, regarded herself as guilty, and as the most miserable woman in the world. And then, having never learned anything from the Cordelier but confidence in good works, satisfaction for sins by austerity of life, fasting, and disci¬ pline. and being wholly ignorant of the grace given by our good God through the merits of his Son, the remission of sins through his blood, the reconciliation of the Father with us through his death, and the life given to sinners by his sole goodness and mercy, she was so bewildered between her horror at the enor¬ mity of the deed and her love for her husband and the honour of r64 The Hep tamer on of the Queen cf Navarre. her line, that she thought death fir happier than such a life as hers. Thus, rendered desperate by her grief, she lost not only the hope which every Christian ought to have in God, but common sense too, and the recollection of her own nature. Not knowing, then, either God or herself, but, on the con rary, full of rage and madness, she undid one of the cords of her bed, and strangled herself with her own hands. In the agony of that painful death, amidst the last violent efforts of nature, the unfor¬ tunate woman pressed her foot upon her infant’s face, and its inno¬ cence could not secure it from a death as piteous as its mother’s. Roused by a great cry uttered by the expiring lady, a woman who slept in her room got up, and lighted a candle. Seeing her mistress hanging dead by the bed-cord, and her infant smothered at her feet, the horrified servant went to the bedroom of the deceased's brother, and took him to see that sad spectacle. The brother, as deeply afflicted as a man would naturally be who tenderly loved his sister, asked the servant who had perpetrated such a crime. She could not tell at all ; the only thing she could say was, that no one had entered the room but her master, who had quitted it but a moment ago. The brother, hurrying instantly to his brother-in law’s chamber, and not finding him there, was firmly persuaded that he had done the deed. Mount¬ ing his horse without more delay, or waiting for fuller informa¬ tion, he rode after his brother-in-law, and met him as he was returning from his ineffectual pursuit of the Cordelier. “ Defend yourself, base villain 1” cried the brother-in-law ; “ I trust that God will revenge me with this sword on the greatest miscreant on earth.” The husband would have expostulated ; but the brother- in-law pressed him so hard, that all he could do was to defend himself, without knowing what was the cause of the quarrel. They dealt each other so many wounds that they were compelled, by loss of blood and weakness, to dismount and rest a little. While they were taking breath, the husband said, “ Let me at least know, brother, why the friendship we have always had for one another has been changed into such rancorousfhatred ? ” “ Let me know why you have put my sister to death, one of the best women that ever lived,” replied the brother ; “ and why, under pretext of going to sleep with her, you have hung her with the bed-cord ? ” More dead than alive on hearing these words, the poor hus¬ band faltered out, “'Is it possible, brother, that you found your sister in the state you say?” Being assured that this was the exact truth, “Pray, brother, listen to me,” he continued, “and Novel 23.] , Third Day. 105 you shall know why I left the house.” And then he related the adventure of the Cordriier. The astonished brother now bitterly repented the precipitation with which he had acted, and earnestly implored forgiveness. “If I have wronged you,” said the hus¬ band, V you are avenged ; for I am wounded beyond hope of recovery.” The brother-in law set him on his horse as well as he could, and led him back to his own house, where he died the next day. and the survivor confessed before all his relations and friends that he was the cause of his death. For the satisfaction of justice, the brother-in-law was advised to go and solicit his pardon ot King Francis I. To this end, after having honourably interred the father, mother, and child, he set out one Good Friday, to solicit his pardon at court; and he obtained it through the favour of Francois Olivier, chancellor ol Alengon, afterwards, in consideration of his great endowments, chosen by the king to be chancellor of France. I am persuaded, ladies, that after this story, which is the very truth, there is not one of you but will think twice before giving reception to such guests. Let it at least teach you that the more hidden the venom, the more dangerous it is. “Surely,” said Hircan, “this husband was a great fool to bring such a gallant to sup by the side of such a handsome and virtuous woman.” “ I have seen the time,” said Geburon, “ when there was not a house in our country in which there was not a chamber for the good fathers ; but at present people know them so well that they are more feared than adventurers.” “ It seems to me,” said Parlamente, “ that a woman in bed ought never to let monk or priest into her room except to ad¬ minister to her the sacraments of the church ; and for my part, when I summon any of them to my bedside, it may be taken for a sure sign that I am very far gone.” “ If everybody was as austere as you,” said Ennasuite, “the poor clergy would no longer be free to see women when and where they pleased, and that would be worse to them than ex¬ communication,” “Have no fear on their account,” said Saffredent; “these worthies will never want for women.” “ Is not this too bad ? ” exclaimed Simontault. “It is they who unite us with our wives in the bonds of wedlock, and they have the wickedness to try to disunite us, and make us break the oath they have imposed upon us.” 166 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navart'e. “ It is a pity,” said Oisille, “that they who have the adminis¬ tration of the sacraments make light of them in this manner. They ought to be burned alive.” “ You would do better to honour them than to blame them,” replied Saffredent, “ and to flatter instead of abusing them, for it is they who have the power to burn and dishonour others, there¬ fore, let them alone; and let us see, whom does Oisille call on?” “ On Dagoucin,” she replied ; “ for I see he is so pensive that it strikes me he must have something good at the tip of his tongue.” “Since I cannot and dare not say what I think,” said Dagou¬ cin, “at least I will speak of a man to whom cruelty was preju¬ dicial and afterwards advantageous. Although love has such a good opinion of its own strength and potency that it likes to show itself quite naked, and finds it extremely irksome, nay, insup¬ portable to go cloaked, yet those who, in obedience to its dictates, make too great haste to disclose themselves often suffer for it, as happened to a gentleman of Castile, whose story I shall relate to you.” NOVEL XXIV. Device of a Castilian to make a declaration of love to a queen, and what came of it. HERE was at the court of a king and queen of Castile, whose names history does not mention, a gentleman of such good birth and comely person that his equal there was not in all Spain. Everyone held his endowments in admiration, but still more his eccentricity ; for it had never been perceived that he loved or courted any lady, though there were many at the court who might have fiyd ice itself; but there was not one who could kindle the heart of Elisor, for so this gentleman was named. The queen, who was a woman of great virtue, but a woman nevertheless, and not more exempt than the rest of her sex from that flame which is the more violent the more it is compressed — the queen, 1 say, surprised that this gentleman did not attach himself to any of her ladies, asked him one day if it was true that he was as indifferent as he appeared. He replied, that if she saw his heart as she saw his face, she would not have asked him that question. Eager to know what he meant, she pressed him so hard that he confessed he loved a lady whom he believed to be the most virtuous in all Christendom. She did all she Novel 24.] Third Day . 167 could by entreaties and commands to make him say who the lady was, but all to no purpo>e ; till at last she pretended to be most deeply incensed against him, and swore that she would never speak to him again if he did not name the lady he loved so passionately. To escape from her importunities, he was forced to say that he would rather die than do what she required of him ; but at last, finding that he was about to be deprived of the honour of seeing her, and to be cast out of her favour for not declaring a truth in itself so seemly that no one could take it in bad part, he said to her, trembling with emotion, “ I cannot and dare not, madam, name the person ; but I will show her to you the first time we go to the chase ; and I am sure that you will say, as well as I, that she is the most beautiful and most accom¬ plished lady in the world.” After this reply, the queen went to the chase sooner than she would otherwise have done. Elisor had notice of this, and pre¬ pared to wait on her majesty as usual. He had got made for himself a great steel mirror in the shape of a corslet, and this he placed on his chest, concealed beneath a mantle of black frieze, all bordered with purl and gold. He rode a back horse, very richly caparisoned. His harness was all giided and enamelled black in the Moorish fashion, and his black silk hat had a buckle adorned with precious stones, and having in the centre, for a device, a Love concealed by Force. His sword, poniard, and the devices upon them, corresponded to the rest ; in short, he was admirably accoutred ; and he was such a good horseman that all who siw him neglected the pleasures of the chase to see the paces and the leaps which Elisor made his horse perform. After escorting the queen to the place where the toils were spread, he alighted and went to aid her majesty to dismount. At the moment she held out her arms he opened his cloak, which covered his new cuirass, and said, “ Be pleased, madam, to look h?re ; ” and without awaiting her reply he set her gently on the ground. When the chase was ended, the queen returned to the palace without speaking to Elisor. After supper she called him to her, and told him he was the greatest liar she had ever seen, for he had promised to show her at the chase the lady of his love, and yet he had done no such thing ; but for her part, she was re¬ solved for the future to make no account of him. Elisor, fearing that the queen had not understood what he had said to her, replied that he had kept his word, and that he had shown her not only the woman, but also that thing in all the world which 168 TJie Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. he loved best. Affecting ignorance of his meaning, she declared she was not aware that he had shown her any of the ladies. “ That is true,” replied Elisor; “ but what did I show you when you demounted from your horse ? ” “Nothing,” said the queen, “but a mirror you had on your chest.” “ And what did you see in the mirror? ” “ Nothing but myself.” “ Consequently, madam, I have kept my word and obeyed you. Never did anything enter my heart but that which you saw when you looked at my chest. She who was there pictured is the only one whom l love, revere, and adore, not as a woman merely, but as an earthly divinity, on whom my life and death depend. The only favour I ask of you, madam, is that the perfect passion, which has been life to me whilst concealed may not be my death now that I have declared it. If I am worthy that you should regard me and receive me as your most impassioned ser¬ vant, suffer me at least to live, as I have hitherto done, upon the blissful consciousness that I have dared to give my heart to a being so perfect, and so worthy of all honour, that I must be content to love her, though I can never hope to be loved in return. If the knowledge you now possess of my intense love does not render me more agreeable to your eyes than heretofore, at least do not deprive me of life, which for me consists in the bliss of seeing you as usual. I now receive from you no other favour than that which is absolutely necessary for my existence. If I have less you will have a servant the less, and will lose the best and most affectionate one you have ever had or ever will have.” The queen, whether it was that she might appear other than she really was, or that she might put his love for her to a longer proof, or that she loved another whom she would not forsake for him, or, lastly, that she was glad to have this lover in reserve in case her heart should become vacant through any fault which might possibly be committed by him whom she loved already, said to him, in a tone which expressed neither anger nor satisfac¬ tion, “ I will not ask you, Elisor, although I know not the powet of love, how you can have been so presumptuous and so extrava* gant as to love me ; for I know that the heart of man is so little at his own command that one cannot love or hate as one chooses. But since you have so well concealed your feelings, I desire to know how long you have entertained them ?” Elisor, looking in her beautiful face, and hearing her inquire Novel 24.] Third Day . 169 about his malady, was not without hopes that she would afford him some relief ; but, on the other hand, seeing theself-command and the gravity with which she questioned him, he feared he had to do with a judge who was about to pronounce sentence against him. Notwithstanding this fluctuation between hope and fear, he protested that he had loved her since her early youth ; but that it was only within the last seven years he had been con¬ scious of his pain, or rather of a malady so agreeable that he would rather die than be cured. “ Since you have been constant for seven years,” said the queen, “ I must be no more precipitate in believing you than you have been in declaring your love to me. Therefore, if you speak the truth, I wish to convince myself of it in a manner that shall leave no room for doubt; and if I am satisfied with the result of the trial, I will believe you to be such towards me as you swear that you are ; and then, when I find you to be indeed what you say, you shall find me to be what you wish.” Elisor besought her to put him to any proof she pleased, there being nothing so hard that would not appear to him very easy, in the hope that he might be happy enough to convince her of the perfect love he bore her. He only waited, he said, to be honoured with her commands. “ If you love me, Elisor, as much as you say,” replied the queen, “ I am sure that nothing will seem hard to you to obtain my good graces ; so I command you, by the desire you have of possessing them, and the fear of losing them, that to-morrow, without seeing me more, you quit the court and go to a place where for seven years you shall hear nothing of me, nor I of you. You know well that you love me, since you have had seven years* experience of the fact. When I shall have a similar seven years’ experience, I shall believe what all your protestations would fail tc assure me of.” This cruel command made Elisor believe at first that her in¬ tention was to get rid of him ; but, upon second thoughts, he accepted the condition, hoping that the proof would do more for him than all the words he could utter. “ If I have lived seven years without any hope,” he said, “ under the painful necessity of dissembling my love, now that it is known to you, and that I have some gleam of hope, I shall pass the other seven years with patience and calmness. But, madam, since in obeying the command you impose upon me I am deprived of all the joy I have ever had in the world, what hope do you give me that, at the end of seven years, you will own me for your faithful servant?” 170 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. Drawing a ring off her finger, “ Let us cut this ring in two,” said the queen ; •• I will keep one half and you the other, in order that I may recognise you by that token, in case length ol time makes me forget your face.” Elisor took the ring, divided it in two, gave the queen one half, and kept the other. Then taking leave of her, more dead than those who have already given up the ghost, he went home to give orders for his departure. Sending his whole retinue to the country, he went away with only one attendant to a place so lonely and sequestered that none of his relations and friends had any tidings of him for seven years. How he lived during that time, and what sorrow absence made him endure, are things beyond my telling ; but those who love can be at no loss to con¬ ceive them. Precisely at the end of seven years, and at the moment when the queen was going to mass, a hermit with a long beard came to her, kissed her hand, and presented to her a petition, which she did not peruse at once, though her custom was to receive all the petitions that were presented to her, however poor were the people who preferred them. When mass was half said, she opened the petition, and found enclosed in it the half of the ring she had given to Elisor. This was an agreeable surprise for her, and before she read the paper, she ordered her almoner to bring her straightway the hermit who had presented the petition. The almoner sought for him in all directions, but all he could learn was that he had been seen to mount and ride away, but no one could tell which way he had gone. While awaiting the return of her almoner, the queen read the petition, which turned out to be a letter, composed in the best possible manner, and, but for the desire I feel to make it intelligible to you, I should never have ventured to translate it ; for I must beg you to understand, ladies, that the Castilian is better adapted than the French tongue to express the emotions of love. The letter was as follows : “Time, a mighty teacher, gave me perfectly to know the nature of love. Time was afterwards assigned me, that the in¬ credulous one might see by my protracted woe what love could not convince her of. Time hath shown me on what foundation . my heart built its great love. That foundation was your beauty, which concealed great cruelty. Time teaches me that beauty is nothing, and that cruelty is the cause of my weal. Exiled by the beauty whose regards I so yearned for, I have come to be more conscious of your extreme ujikindness. I obey ycur cruel Novel 24.] Third Day. r 7 r order, however, and am perfectly content to do so ; for time has had such pity on me that I have wished to return to this place to bid you, not a good day, but a last farewell. Time has shown me love just as it is, poor and naked ; and I have no sense of it except regret. But time has likewise shown me the true love, which I have known only in that solitude where for seven years I have been doomed to mourn in silence. Through time I have come to know the love that dwells on high, at sight of which the other love vanishes, and I have given myself wholly to the one, and weaned my affections from the other. To that better love I devote my heart and my body, to do suit and service to it, and not to you. When I served you, you esteemed me nothing. I now give you back entirely the love you put into my heart, having no need either of it or you. I take my leave of cruelty, pain, torment, scorn, hatred, and the burning fire with which you are filled, no less than you are adorned with beauty. I cannot better bid farewell to all woes and pains and intolerable distresses, and to the hell of the amorous woman, than in bidding farewell to you, madam, without the least prospect that, wherever you or I may be, we shall ever look upon each other more. ,, This letter was not read without tears and incredible surprise and regret. Indeed, the queen could not but feel so keenly the loss of a servant who loved her so perfectly, that not all her treasures, nor even her crown, could hinder her from being the poorest and most miserable princess in the world, since she had lost that which no wealth could replace, After hearing mass, she returned to her chamber, where she gave utterance to the lamentations her cruelty had merited. There was no mountain, rock, or forest to which she did not send in quest of the hermit; but he who had taken him out of her hands hindered him from falling into them again, and removed him to Paradise before she could discover his retreat in this world. This example shows that no one can tell what can do him harm only and no good. Still less, ladies, should you carry dis¬ trust and incredulity so far as to lose your lovers through de¬ siring to put them to too severe a proof. “All my life long, Dagoucin,” said Geburon, “I have neard the lady in question spoken of as the most virtuous woman in Ihe world ; but now I regard her as the most cruel that ever lived.” «* It seems to me, however,” said Parlamente, “ that she did I7 2 The HeptameroJi of the Queen of Navarre. him no such great wrong, if he loved her as much as he said, in exacting from him seven years of trial. Men are so ac¬ customed to lie on these occasions, that one cannot take too many precautions before trusting them—if they are ever to be trusted.” “The ladies of our day,” said Hircan, “are wiser than those of times past; for in seven days’ trial they are as sure with re¬ gard to a lover as others were in seven years.” “ Yet are there those in company,” said Longarine, “who have been wooed for seven years without ever being won.’" “That is true,” said Simontault ; “but with your leave they ought to be classed with the ladies of bygone times, for in the modern class they would not be received.” “ After all,” said Oisille, “Elisor was greatly indebted to the queen, since she was the cause of giving his heart entirely to God.” “It was great luck for him,” said Saffredent, “to find God in his way ; for, crossed as he was, I wonder he did not give himself to the devil.” “ When your lady ill-used you,” inquired Ennasuite, “ did you give yourself to such a master ? ” “Thousands of times; but the devil would never take me, seeing that the tortures of hell were less than those she made me suffer, and that there is no devil more insupportable than a woman who is passionately loved and will not love in return.” “ If I was in your place, and entertained such sentiments,” said Parlamente, “ I would never love a woman.” “ Such has always been my unfortunate propensity,” replied Saffredent, “that when I cannot command 1 think myself very happy in being able to serve. But tell me pray, in conscience, now, do you applaud this princess for such excessive rigour?” “Yes,” said Oisille, “for I believe she did not choose either to love or be loved.” “That being the case,” said Simontault, “why give him hopes after seven years should have passed ? ” “You are right,” said Longarine; “and I think that ladies who do not choose to love should cut the matter short at once, and hold out no hopes to their suitors.” “Perhaps,” said Nomerfide, “she loved another who w r as not so worthy as Elisor, and preferred the worse man to the better.” “ It is my belief,” said Saffredent, “ that she was glad to keep him in play, that she might have him ready to her hand when¬ ever she cast off the lover she then preferred to him.” Novel 25.] Third Day . 173 “ I see plainly,' said Oisilie, “ that as* long as the conversation runs upon this topic, those who do not like to be treated harshly will say everything bad they can of us ; so be pleased, Dagoucin, to give your voice to some one.” “I give it to Longarine ” said he, “being assured that she will tell us something novel, and speak the very truth without sparing either men or women.” “Since you have such a good opinion of my sincerity,” said Longarine, “ I will relate an anecdote of a great prince who surpassed in endowments all the princes of his time. Permit me also to remark, that falsehood and dissimulation are things which should be least of all used, unless in a case of extreme necessity. They are very ugly and disgraceful vices, especially in princes and great lords, whom truth becomes still more than other men. But there is no prince in the world, however glorious or rich he may be, who does not acknowledge the empire of love, and submit to its tyranny. Indeed, that arro¬ gant god disdains all that is common, and delights only in working miracles every day, such as weakening the strong, strengthening the weak, making fools of the wise, and knowing persons of the ignorant, favouring the passions, destroying reason, and, in a word, turning everything topsy-turvy. As princes arc not exempt from it, no more so are they from the necessity in which they are put by the desire of amorous servitude. 1 hence it comes that they are forced to use falsehood, hypocrisy, and feigning, which, according to Maitre Jean de Meun, are means for vanquishing enemies. Though conduct of this nature is laudable in a prince, though it be censurable in all other men, I will recount to you the device employed by a young prince who tricked those who are used to trick all the world.” NOVEL XXV. Cunning contrivance of a young prince to enjoy the wife of an advocate of Paris. MONO the advocates in Paris, there was one who was more esteemed than any nine others in his profession ; and his knowledge and ability made him sought by all clients, he became the richest of all the men of the gown. Now, seeing that he had no children by his first wife, he thought he should have some by a second ; for though he was old, he had, nevertheless, the heart and the hope of a young man. He 1 74 1 he Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. made choice of a Parisian of eighteen or nineteen, very handsome in face and complexion, and handsomer still in figure and plumpness. He loved her and treated her as well as possible; but he had no children by her any more than by his first wife ; which the fail one at last took sorely to heart. As youth cannot carry the burden of care very far, the advocate’s young wife resolved to seek else¬ where the pleasure she did not find at home, and used to go to balls and feasts ; but this she did, nevertheless, with such out¬ ward propriety, and so much caution, that her husband could not take offence, for she was always with those ladies in whom he had most confidence. One day, when she was at a wedding entertainment, there happened to be present a young prince, who told me the story, and forbade me to name him. All I can tell you is that there never was, and never will be, I think, a prince in France of finer person and demeanour. The eyes and ihe countenance of the advocate’s lady inspired the prince with love. He spoke to her so well, and with such grace, that she took pleasure in his dis¬ course, and ingenuously owned to him that she had long had in her heart the love for which he craved, and begged he would spare himself the pains of trying to persuade her to a thing to which love had already made her consent at mere sight. The frankness of love having bestowed on the prince what was well worth the pains of being won by time, he tailed not to thank the god who favoured him ; and he plied his oppirtunity so well, that they agreed there and then upon the means of seeing each other in less crowded company. The time and the place being assigned, the prince appeared punctually, but in disguise, that he might not compromise the honour of the fair one, As he did not wish to be known by the rogues and thieves who roam by night, he had himself escorted by some trusty gentlemen, from whom he separated on entering the street where the lady resided, saying to them, “ If you hear no noise within a quarter of an hour go away, and return about three or four o’clock.” The quarter of an hour having expired, and no noise having been heard, the gentlemen withdrew. The prince went straight to the advocate’s house, and .found the door open as he had beeq promised, but on going up the staircase he met the advocate with a candle in his hand, who saw him first. Love, however, which gives wit and boldness in proportion to the crossings and thwartings it occasions, prompted the prince to go up at once to the advocate and say tG him, “You know, master advocate, the confidence which I an d Novel 25 .] Third Bay. 175 all my house repose in you, and that I regard you as one of my best and most faithtul servants. I am come to see you privately, as well to recommend my affairs to you as to beg you will give me something to drink, for I am very thirsty, and not let anybody know that I have been here. When I quit you I shall have to go to another place, where I should not like to be known.” The poor man, delighted with the honour the prince did him by this familiar visit, begged him to enter his room, and told his wife to prepare a collation of the best fruits and the most exquisite confections she could find ; which she did right gladly, with all possible daintiness. Though she was in kerchief and mantle, and appeared to more than usual advantage in that neglige , the prince affected not to look at her, but talked continually about his business to her husband, who had always had the manage¬ ment of it. Whilst the wife knelt before the prince to present him some confections, and the husband was going to the buffet to fetch him something to drink, she found time to tell him not to fail on departing to enter a garderobe on the right, where she would soon join him. When he had drunk, he thanked the advocate, who wished by all means to accompany him ; but this the prince would not allow, assuring him he was going to a place where he had no need of company. Then turning to the wife, he said, “ I will not deprive you of your good husband, who is one of my old servants. You are so happy in having him that you have reason to thank God. You must serve and obey him well ; and if you did otherwise you would be very ungrateful.” So saying, he went out, shut the door after him, that he might not be followed to the staircase, and entered the garderobe , where the fair one joined him as soon as her husband was asleep. She took him into a cabinet as elegant as could be, but in truth there was nothing in it handsomer than he and she ; and I doubt not that she kept word with him as to all she had promised. He left her at the hour he had told his people, and found them at the place where he had desired them to wait for him. As the intrigue was of long duration, the prince chose a shorter way to go to the advocate’s; this was to pass through a monastery. He managed matters so well with the prior that every night the porter opened the door for him towards midnight, and did the same when he returned. The advocate’s house not being far from the monastery, he took no one with him. Not¬ withstanding the prince led the life I have described, still he loved and feared God, so true it is that man is a whimsical mixture of good and evil, and a perpetual contradiction. On hi? I 476 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. way to th^ advocate’s he only passed through the monastery, but on his return he never failed to remain a long time at prayer in the church. The monks, seeing him on his knees as they went to matins, or returned from them, believed he was the most pious of men. The prince had a sister who was much in the habit of fre¬ quenting that convent. As she loved her brother above all men, she used to commend him to the prayers of all the good people sue knew. One day, when she was thus speaking for him with great earnestness to the prior of this monastery, the good father replied, “ Why, madam, what is that you ask of me ? You name the very man above all others to whose prayers I most desire to be myself commended ; for if he is not pious and righteous, I never expect to see one that is so.” Thereupon he quoted the text which says that “ Blessed is he who can do evil, and doeth it not.” The sister, who longed to know what proof the prior had of her brother’s sanctity, questioned him so earnestly that he said to her, as if he was revealing a secret of the confessional, “ Is it not a marvellous and goodly thing to see a young and handsome prince abandoning pleasures and repose to come frequently to our matins? He does not come like a prince who seeks to be honoured of men, but quite alone like a simple monk, and he goes and hides himself in one of our chapels. This devotion so confounds my brethren and myself, that we do not think ourselves worthy to be called men of religion in comparison with him.” The sister did not know what to think of this ; for though her brother was very mundane, she knew, nevertheless, that he had a good conscience, that he believed in God and loved him much ; but she could never have imagined that he would make a practice of going to church at that hour. As soon as she saw him, she told him what a good opinion the monks had of him. He could not help laughing, and in such a manner that she, who knew him as she did her own heart, readily guessed that there was something concealed under this pretended devotion. She teased him so much that at last he told her the whole truth, as you have heard from me, and as she did me the honour to relate it to me.* * Francis I. is the young prince who figures in this novel. The same story has been told of him, with additional circumstances, by some historians and others. It is thus related by a physician named Louis Guyon, Sieur de la Nauche, who flourished at the end of the 16th century. “ Francis I. was en¬ amoured of a lady of great beauty and g^ent grace, the wife of an advocate ot Paris, whom I will not name, for he has left children in high estate, and who V AFovei 25.J Third Day. 177 You see by this, ladies, that there are no advocates so crafty, or monks so shrewd, but -that they may be tricked in case of need when one loves well. Since, then, love teaches how to trick the tricksters, how much reason have we to fear it, we who are poor simple creatures ? “Though I guess pretty well,” said Geburon, “who is the hero of this tale, I cannot help saying that he is to be praised for having kept the secret ; for there are few great lords who give themselves any concern either about the honour of women or public scandal, provided they have their pleasure. Frequently, even, they act in such a manner as to make people believe more than the truth.” are persons of good repute. The lady would never comply with the king a desires, but on the contrary repulsed him with many rude words, which hart him sore. Knowing this, some courtiers and royal pimps told the king he might take her authoritatively and by the power of his royalty. One of them actually went and said this to the lady, who reported it to her husband. The advocate saw plainly that they must quit the realm, and that, moreover, they should find it very hard to escape, unless they obeyed. Finally, the husband allowed his wife to comply with the king's desire ; and that he might be no hindrance, he pretended to have business in the country for eight or ten days. Meanwhile he remained concealed in Paris, frequenting the brothels, trying to catch the pox to give to his wife, that the king might take it from her. He quickly got what he sought, infected his wife, and she the king, who gave it to several other women with whom he conversed ; and he never could be thoroughly cured, for all the rest of his life he was unhealthy, sad, peevish, and inaccessible.” (Diverses Lemons de Louis Guy on, sieur de la Nauche. Lyon ( 1610, t. 11, p. 109.) Brant6me also speaks of the malady contracted by the king through his gallantries, and says that it shortened his life ; but he does not mention any woman in particular, or allude to the story of the advocate’s wife. “Many have thought that she was no other than * La belle Fdronniere,' so called because she was married to an advocate of the Le Feron family, many members of which were distinguished in the bar of Paris.” “ We must, then,” say the Bibliophiles Franpais, “number among apocryphal anecdotes the last and vilest part of the adventure of the advocate of Paris What is true, Margaret has made known to us ; modern historians, even those who have shown themselves most unfavourable to Francis I., have not re¬ produced the fact stated by Louis Guyon. M, Genin, editor of Margaret’s letters, has even published the postcript of a letter of Cardinal d’Armagnac, which proves that at least a year before his death the king was in perfect health. (See Lettres de Marguerite d' Angoul&me, &c., 1841, 8vo., p. 473.) Thus is annihilated the ignoble accusation of a shameful disease which should have hastened the death of Francis I.” In Grammont’s Memoirs it is related that the Duke of York, afterwards James II., was the victim of the same sort of revenge on the part of a jealous husband as that attributed to the advocate of Paris. H 178 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. “It would be well,” said Oisille, “if all young lords fol¬ lowed this example, for often the scandal is worse than the sin.” “ Vou may well believe,” said Nomerfide, “that the prayers he offered up in church were very sincere and very acceptable to God.” “ That is not a question for you to decide,” said Parlamente, “ for, perhaps, his repentance was such on his return from his assignation that his sin was forgiven.” “ It is very difficult,” said Hircan, “ to repent of a thing that gives such pleasure. For my part, I have often confessed, but hardly repented it.” “ If one does not repent, it were better not to confess,” ob¬ served Oisille. “Sin displeases me, madam,” rejoined Hircan. “ I am vexed at offending God ; but pleasure pleases me.” “You would be very glad, you and others like you,” remarked Parlamente, “ that there were neither God nor law but what agreed with your own inclination.” “ I confess,” said Hircan, “ I should be glad if my pleasures were as pleasing to God as they are to me. In that case, I would often give matter for rejoicing.” “ You will not make a new God, however,” said Geburon ; “ and so the best thing we can do is to obey the one we have; But let us leave these disputes to theologians, and see to whom Longarine will give her voice.” “To Saffredent,” said Longarine, “on condition that he tells us the finest tale he can recollect, and that he is not so intent on speaking ill of women as not to do them justice when he can say anything to their advantage.” “ With all my heart,” said Saffredent. “ I recollect, quite <2 propos , a story of a loose woman and a staid one ; so you may choose whichever example of the two you prefer. You will see from this story that love makes bad acts be done by persons ot bad heart ; it also makes people of worth do things deserving of praise ; for love is good in itself, but the depravity of the individual often makes it take a new title, such as lascivious, light, cruel, or vile. You will see, nevertheless, from the tale I am about to tell, that love does not change the heart, but makes it appear such as it is : wanton in the wanton, sober in the sober.” Novel 26 .1 Third Day . 179 NOVEL XX\I. How the Lord of Avannes was weaned from a dissolute amour with a lady ol Pampeluna by the advice and sisterly affection of a virtuous lady. URING the reign of King Louis XII., there was a young lord named Monsieur D’Avannes, son of Monsieur d’Albret, the brother of John, King of Navarre, with whom D’Avannes usually resided. This young lord was so handsome, and had such an engaging demeanour at the age of fifteen, that he seemed to be made only to be beloved and admired ; and so he was by all who saw him, and above all by a lady who lived in Pampeluna, in Navarre, and was married to a very wealthy man, with whom she lived happily. Though she was but three-and-twenty, yet, as her husband was nearly fifty, she dressed so modestly that she had more the appearance of a widow than of a married woman. She was never seen at wed dings or festivities but with her husband, whose worth she prized so highly that she preferred it to the good looks of all other men. The husband, on his side, knew her to be so discreet, and had so much confidence in her, that he entrusted all the affairs of the house to her prudence. This rich man and his wife were one day invited to the wed¬ ding of one of their female relations. D'Avannes was present to do honour to the bridal, and also because he was fond of dancing, in which he acquitted himself better than any man of his day. When dinner was over and the ball began, the rich man begged D’Avannes to dance. The latter asked with whom he would have him dance : whereupon the rich man, taking his wife by the hand, presented her to D’Avannes, and said, “ If there was a handsomer lady in the room, monsieur, or one so much at my disposal, I would present her to you as I do this one, begging you, monsieur, to do me the honour to dance with her.” The prince gladly complied ; and he was still so young that he took more pleasure in dancing and skipping than in gazing on ladies’ charms. It was not so with his partner, who paid more attention to the handsome figure and good looks of her cavalier than to the dance ; but she took care not to let this appear. Supper time being come, M. D Avannes took leave of the company and retired to the chateau. The rich man escorted him thither, mounted on his mule, and said to him on the way, “ Monsieur, you have to-day done so much honour to my relations and myself that I should be ungrateful if I did not make you j8o The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre, every offering in my power. I know, monsieur, that lords like you, who have strict and close-handed fathers, have often more need of money than we, who, with our small retinue and good management, do nothing but amass. God, who has given me everything that could be desired in a wife, has thought fit to leave me still something to wish for in this world, since I am deprived of the joy which fathers derive from children. I know, mon¬ sieur, that it does not belong to me to adopt you ; but if you please to regard me as your servant, and confide your little affairs *.o me, as far as a hundred thousand crowns may go you shall never want for aid in your need.” M. D’Avannes was very glad of this offer, for he had just such a father as the other had mentioned ; and after thanking his generous friend, he called him his father by alliance. Thence¬ forth the rich man was so fondly attached to M. D’Avannes that he failed not to ask him every morning and evening if he wanted anything ; and he made no secret of this to his wife, who was much pleased with it. M. D’Avannes never afterwards wanted anything he could desire. He often went to see his father by alliance, and eat with him ; and when he did not find him at home, the wife gave him whatever he asked for, and spoke to him so sagely, exhorting him to virtue, that he feared and loved her above all women in the world. For her part, having the fear of God and honour before her eyes, she contented herself with seeing and speaking to him, which is enough for a virtuous love ; nor did she ever give him any indication from which he could conjecture that she entertained for him any other than a sisterly and Christian regard. About the age of seventeen, M. D’Avannes began to attach himself more to the ladies than he had been used to do ; and though he would more gladly have loved his own good lady than any other, the fear of losing her friend¬ ship hindered him from speaking, and made him fix his choice elsewhere. He addressed himself to a lady near Pampeluna, who had a house in the town, and had married a young man whose ruling passion was horses, dogs, and hawks. For her sake he gave a thousand entertainments, such as tournaments, games, races, wrestling-matches, masquerades, balls, &c. ; but as the husband was of a jealous temper, and the lady’s father and mother knew her to be fair and frolicsome, and were afraid of her tripping, they watched her so closely that all M. D’Avannes could do was to whisper a word or two in her ear at a ball, although he well knew, and this made the matter still more provoking, that V Ncvel 26.J Third Day. t3 1 nothing but time and place was wanting for the consummation of their mutual inclinations. He went to his good father, told him he had a mind to visit Notre Dame de Montferrat, and begged he would receive his whole retirue into his house, for it was his wish to go alone. This request was instantly granted; but as love is a great prophet, and as the wife was under the influence of that power, she guessed the truth at once, and could not help saying to M. D’Avannes, “The Notre Dame you adore, monsieur, is not outside the walls of this town. Take care of your health, I beseech you.” M. D Avannes, who, as I have already said, feared and loved her, blushed so much at these words that he tacitly betrayed the truth, and went away. After buying two handsome Spanish horses, he dressed him¬ self as a groom, and disguised himself so well that no one could have known him. The husband of the wanton lady, being fond of horses above all things, saw the two belonging to M. D’Avannes, and immediately offered to buy them. The bargain being con¬ cluded, he took particular notice of the groom, and seeing that he managed the horses very well, asked if he would enter his service. M. D’Avannes at once agreed to do so, and said he was a poor groom, who could do nothing but take care of horses, but this he could do so well that his master would be satisfied with him. The gentleman gave him the change of all his horses, and when he reached home told his wife that he was going to the chateau, and that he begged her to look after his groom and his horses. As much to please her husband as because she had no other recreation, the lady went to see the horses, and noticed the new groom, who seemed to her a good-looking man ; but she did not recognize him. Seeing this, he made his obeisanc' to her in the Spanish fashion, took her hand and kissed it, ani in so doing pressed it so strongly that she knew him, for he had often done the same thing in dancing with her. From that moment she thought of nothing but how she might contrive to speak with him in private ; and this she did that very evening. She was invited to an entertainment to which her husband was to have taken her ; but she feigned indisposition, and would not go. Her husband, not wishing to disappoint his friends, begged her, since she would not accompany him, to look a f ter his dogs and his horses, and see that they wanted for no¬ thing. This commission was most agreeable to her ; but the better to play her part, s e replied that, since he would not employ her in higher things, she would prove to him, by her care fof the least, how much she desired to please him. / f 8a The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. No sooner was her husband gone than she went to the stable, where she found that something was not as it should be. To set matters right, she gave so many orders to the men that she was left alone with the head groom, and, for fear of anyone coming upon them, she told him to go into the garden and wait for her in a little corner at the end of an alley, which he did with such haste that he had not time even to thank her. Having given her orders in the stables, she went to see the dogs, and busied herself so much about them, that it seemed as though from being mistress she had become servant. All this being done, she went back to her chamber, and complained so much of fatigue that she had to go to bed. All her women withdrew except one, in whom she specially confided ; and this one she sent to the garden, with orders to bring her the man she would find at the end of the alley. The chambermaid found the head- groom, brought him straightway to her mistress, and then mounted guard outside, to give warning should the husband return, M. D’Avannes, finding himself alone with his fair one, stripped ofl his groom’s dress, his false nose, and false beard, and not as a timorous groom, but in his proper character, boldly stepped into bed to her without asking leave, and was received as the handsomest man of his time by the most wanton woman in the country. There he remained until the return of her husband, when he resumed his mask, and quitted the place he had sc cunningly usurped. The husband, on entering his courtyard, found that his wife had carefully executed his orders, and thanked her for it. “ I have only done my duty, my dear,” she said. “ It is true that if one had not an eye on the varlets, you have not a dog but what would be mangy, or a horse but would be out of condition ; but as I know their laziness and your wishes, you shall be better served than ever you have been.” The husband, who thought he had got the best groom in the world, asked her what she thought of him. “ I assure you, monsieur,” said she, “ that he knows his business as well as any man you could find. Still he requires to be kept to his work, for he is the sleepiest varlet I ever saw.” The wedded pair were on better terms with each other than they had ever been, and the husband became quite cured of his jealousy, because his wife was now as attached to her household concerns as she had previously been fond of feasts, dances, and company. Formerly she used always to spend four hours at her toilette ; but now she dressed very simply. Hei husband, and those who did not know that a worse I Novel 26.] Third Day . 183 devil had driven out a lesser, extolled her for so happy a change. Meanwhile, this virtuous-seeming hypocrite led such a licentious life that reason, conscience, order, or moderation had no longer any place in her. M. D’Avannes, being young and of a delicate constitution, could not tong sustain all this ; but became so pale and thin that he had no need of a mask to conceal his identity. His extravagant love for this woman had so infatuated him that he imagined he had strength to accomplish devoirs for which that of Hercules would not have been sufficient. Having fallen ill at last, and being teased by the lady, who was not so fond ot him sick as sound, he asked for his discharge, which the hus¬ band granted with regret, making him promise to return as soon as he was recovered. M. D’Avannes had no need of a horse for his departure, for he had only the length of a street to travel. He went at once to his good father’s, and found there only his wife, whose virtuous love for him had not at all decreased through absence. When she saw him so pale and thin, she could not help saying to him, “ I do not know, monsieur, what is the present state of your con¬ science, but I do not perceive that your pilgrimage has increased your plumpness. I am very much mistaken if your travels by night 1 ave not fatigued you more than those by day. If you had made the journey to Jerusalem on foot, you would have come back more sunburnt, but not so lean and weak. Recollect this ride, and pay no more devotions to such images, which, instead of resuscitating the dead, bring the living to death. I should say more to you, but I see that, if you have sinned, you have been so punished that it would be cruel to add to your distress.” M. D’Avannes, more ashamed than penitent, replied, “ I have heard, madam, that repentance follows close upon the fault. This I experience, to my cost; and I pray you, madam, to excuse my youth, which is punished by the experience of the mischief it would not be warned against.” The lady changed the conversation, and made him lie down in a fine bed, where he remained for a fortnight, taking nothing but restoratives; and the husband and the wife were so assiduous in their attentions that one or other was alwa>s with him. Thojgh he had committed the folly you have heard against the feelings and the advice of the excellent lady, she nevertheless continued to love him as before, in the hope that, when this great fire of youth had passed away, he would reform and come to love rightly, and then he would be all her own. During the foitnight he remained in her house, she talked so much and 4 184 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. well to inspire him with a love of virtue that he began to hate vice, and to be disgusted with his fault. Gazing one day on the virtuous lady, who appeared to him much handsomer than the wanton, and knowing her excellent qualities better than he had ever done, he banished all fear, and thus addressed her : “ I see no better means, madam, of becoming as good as you would have me to be, than to turn my whole heart to the love of virtue. Pray tell me, madam, I beseech you, would you not have the goodness to give me all the aid in your power to that end ? ” The lady, delighted to see him come to the point to which she wished to lead him, replied, “ I promise you, monsieur, that if you love virtue as much as becomes a lord of your rank, I will spare nothing to render you all the services of which I may be capable.” “ Remembt-ryour promise, madam,” returned D’Avannes; “and consider that God, whom the Christian knows only by faith, has deigned to assume flesh like that of the sinner, in order that, attracting our flesh to the love of his humanity, He might also attract our spirits to the love of his divinity, thus employing visible things to make us love the Invisible. As this virtue, which I wish to love all my life long, has nothing visible about it except the outward effects it produces, it is necessary that it should assume some body, in order to make itself known to men. It has assumed that body, madam, in putting on yours, the most perfect it could have found. I own, therefore, that you are not only virtuous, but actually virtue itself ; and I, who see that virtue shine beneath the veil of the most beautiful body that ever existed, wish to serve and honour it all my life, and to renounce for ever the love that is criminal and vain.” The lady, though no less delighted than surprised to hear him speak thus, was able completely to conceal her feelings, and said, 44 I will not take upon me, monsieur, to reply to your theology ; but as I am much more disposed to fear the evil than to believe the good, I beg you will not address me in a language which gives you so poor an opinion of those who are weak enough to believe it. I know very well that I am a woman like any other, and a woman that has so many defects that virtue would do something greater in transforming me into itself than in trans¬ forming itself into me, unless it wished to remain unknown to the world. No one would think of recognizing it under such a garb as mine. Howbeit, with all my faults, my lord, I still love you as much as a woman can and ought who fears God and V Novel 26.] Third Day. 185 cherishes honour ; but this love shall not be declared to you until your heart is capable of the patience which a virtuous love re¬ quires. When that time comes, monsieur, I know what 1 shall h revealed her crime, and besought his counsel in what manner she should act, as the fruit of her horrible artifice had lately been married to her son, neither party being aware of the relation that subsisted between them. The prelate charged her never to let her son or daughter know what had passed. Fcr herself, he bade her almost despair ” 202 The Heptameron of the Queen of Nava?'re. " Be assured,” said Parlamente, “that the first step man takes in self-confidence, removes him so far from the confidence he ought to have in God.” “ Man is wise,” said Geburon, “ when he recognises no greater enemy than himself, and distrusts his own will and counsel, how¬ ever good and holy they may see n in his e)es.” “For no apparent prospect >»f good to come of it, however great,” said Longarine. “ should a woman expose herself to share the same bed with a man, however nearly related to her. Fire and tow are no safe neighbours. “ Assuredly,” said Ennasuite, “ this woman was a conceited fool, who thought herself such a saint that she could not sin, as some would have simple folks believe of them, which is a gross and pernicious error.” “ Is it possible,” exclaimed Oisille, “that there are people so foolish as to believe anything of the sort?” “They do still more,” said Longarine; “ they say that it is* necessary to habituate oneself to chastity ; and to try their strength, they talk with the handsomest women and those they love best, and by kissing and touching them make trial of themselves as to whether or not they are in a condition of complete mortification of the flesh. When they find that this pleasure moves them, they fall back on solitude, fasting, and discipline ; and when they have so subdued the flesh that neither conversation nor kissing causes them any emotion, the fools try the temptation of lying together and embracing without any voluptuous desire. But, for one who resists, a thousand succumb. Thence have ensued so many mischiefs, that the Archbishop of Milan, where this religious practice was introduced, was com¬ pelled to separate the sexes, and put the women into the women’s convent, and the men into that of the men.” “ Was there ever a more extravagant folly ?” said Geburon, “ A man wants to make himself sinless, and seeks with avidity provocations to sin.” “ Some there are,” said Saffredent, “ who do quite the reverse ; they shun temptation as much as possible, and yet concupiscence clings to them everywhere. The good Saint Jerome, after having soundly flogged and hid himself in the desert, confessed that he had been unable to overcome the fire of lust that burned in his marrow. The sovereign remedy, then, is to commend oneself to God ; for, unless He upholds us by His power, His virtue, and His goodness, we not only fall, but take pleasure in falling.” “You do not see what I do,” said Hircan ; “which is, that Novel 30.] Third Day. 203 whilst we were telling our stories the monks who were behind that hedge did not hear the vesper-bell ; but no sooner did they hear us talk of God than away they went, and now they are ringing the second bell.” “ We shall do well to follow them,” said Oisille, “ and praise God for his grace in enabling us to pass this day so happily.” Upon this the whole company rose and went to the church, where they devoutly heard vespers. At supper they talked over the conversation of the day, and many things which had occurred in the time, each citing what he thought most worthy of recollec¬ tion. After a cheerful evening, they retired to their beds, in the hope of resuming next day a pastime which was so agreeable to them. Thus ended, the third day. 904 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. % FOURTH DAY. ADAME OISILLE rose earlier than the rest, according to her good custom, and meditated on Holy Writ whilst awaiting the gradual assemblage of the company. The laziest excused themselves with the words of Scrip¬ ture, “ I have a wife, and I cannot come so soon.” Thus it was that when Hircan and his wi^ made their appearance, Madame Oisille had already begun her reading ; but she knew how to pick out the passages in which those are censured who neglect the hearing of the Word. She not only read the text, but she made them such good and holy exhortations that it was impos¬ sible for them to take offence at them. When these devotional exercises were ended, Parlamente said to her, “ I was vexed when I came in at having been lazy, but I now congratulate myself on my laziness, since it has made you speak so well. I derive a double advantage from it—repose of body and satisfac¬ tion of mind.” “ For penance, then, let us go to mass,” said Oisille, “ to pray to our Lord for the will and the strength to do His com¬ mands; and then let Him command what he pleases.” As she said these words they entered the church, and after having heard mass with much devotion, they sat down to table, where Hircan did not fail to banter his wife for her laziness. After dinner every one retired to study his part, and at the appointed hour they all repaired punctually to the usual ren¬ dezvous. Oisille asked Hircan who should begin the day. “If my wife had not been the first speaker yesterday,” he said, “ I would give my voice for her; for though I have always believed that she loved me better than any man in the world, she has shown me to-day that she loves me a great deal better than God and his Word, since she has preferred my company to your reading. Since, then, I cannot give my voice to the most discreet of the women, I will give it to the most discreet of the men—I mean Geburon, whom I entreat not to spare the monks.” “ It is not necessary to make the entreaty,” replied Geburon. “I hold them too well in mind to forget them. It is not long since I heard a story told by Monsieur de Saint Vincent, then the emperor’s ambassador, which is too good to be lost.” Nsv& 3 r.] Fourth Day. \ *05 NOVEL XXXI. \ monastery of cordeliers was burned and the monks in it, in perpetual memory of the cruelty of one of them who was in love with a lady. ITHIN the dominions of the Emperor Maximilian of Austria there was a monastery of Cordeliers, held in high esteem, and near it was the house of a gentleman. This gentleman was so infatuated with these Cordeliers that there was nothing he did not give them, in order to have part in the benefit of their fastings and prayers. Among others, there was in this monastery a tall, handsome young Cordelier, whom the gentleman had taken for his confessor, and who was as absolute in the house as the master himself. The Cordelier, struck by the exceeding beauty and propriety of the gentleman’s wife, became so enamoured of her, that he could neither eat nor drink, and lost all natural reason. Resolved to execute his design, he went all alone one day to the gentleman’s house. Finding no one at home, the monk asked the lady whither her husband was gone. She replied that he was gone to one of his estates, where he was to remain two or three days ; but that if he wanted him she would send an express to bring him back. The Cordelier told her that was necessary, and began to go to and fro about the house, as if he had some affair of consequence in his head. As soon as the monk had left the lady’s room, she said to one of her women/there wt-re but two of them), “Run after the father, and learn what he wants ; for I know by his looks that he is not pleased.” The girl, finding him in the court-yard, asked him if he wanted anything? He said he did, and drawing her into a corner, he plunged into her bosom a poniard he carried in his sleeve. He had hardly done the deed when one of the gentle¬ man’s men, who had gone to receive the rent of a farm, entered the yard on horseback. As soon as he had dismounted, he saluted the Cordelier, who embraced him, and buried the poniard in his back, after which he closed the gates of the chateau. The lady, seeing that her servant did not return, and surprised at her remaining so long with the Cordelier, said to the other woman, “Go see why your companion does not come back.” The servant went, and no sooner came in sight of the Cordelier than he called her aside, and served her as he had done the other. Knowing that he was then alone in the house, he went to the lady, and told her that he had long loved her, and that it was lime she should obey him. She, who could never have suspected fclim of anything of the kind, replied, “ I believe, father, that if I 206 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. were so unhappily inclined, you would be the first to condemn me and cast a stone at me.” “ Come out into the yard,” said the monk, “ and you will see what I have done.” The poor woman did so, and seeing her two women and her man lying dead on the ground, was so horrified, that she remained motionless and speechless as a statue. The villain, who did not want to have her for an hour only, did not think fit to offer her violence then, and said to her, “ Have no fear, mademoiselle; you are in the hands of that man in all the world who loves you most.” So saying, he took off his robe, beneath which he had a smaller one, which he presented to the demoiselle, threatening, if she did not put it on, that he would treat her as he had done the others. The demoiselle, more dead than alive, made a show of obeying him, as well to save her life as to gain time, in hopes that her husband would return. She took off her head-dress by the Cordelier’s order as slowly as she could ; and when she had done so, the monk, without regard to the beauty of her hair, cut it off in haste, made her strip to her shift, and put on the small robe, and then, resuming his own. set off with all the speed he could make along with the little Cordelier he had so long coveted. God, who has pity on the wronged innocent, was touched by the tears of this poor lady, and so ordered things that her hus¬ band, having despatched his business sooner than he expected, took that very road to return home by which the Cordelier was carrying off his wife. The monk, descrying the husband from a distance, said to the lady, “ Here comes your husband. I know that if you look at him he will try to get you out of my hands ; so walk before me, and do not turn your head in his direction, for if you make him the least sign, I shall have plunged my poniard in your breast sooner than he will have delivered you.” Presently the gentleman came up, and asked him whence he came?” “From your house, monsieur,” replied the Cordelier. “ I left mademoiselle quite well, and she is expecting you.” The gentleman rode on without perceiving his wife ; but the valet who accompanied him, and who had always been in the habit of conversing with the Cordelier’s companion, named Friar John, called to his mistress, thinking that she was that person. The poor woman, who durst not turn her head towards her husband, made no reply to the valet; and the latter crossed the road, that he might see the face of this pretended Brother John. The poor lady, without saying anything, made a sign to him with her eyes, which were full of tears. The valet then rode up to his master, Nouvells XXXle Novel 31.] Fourth Day . 207 and said, * In conscience, monsieur, Friar John is very like mademoiselle, your wife. I had a look at him as I crossed the road. It is certainly not the usual Friar John ; at least, I can tell you, that if it is, he weeps abundantly, and that he gave me a very sorrowful glance of his eye.” The gentleman told him he was dreaming, and made light of what he said. The valet, however, still persisting in it that there was something wrong, asked leave to ride back and see to it, and begged his master to wait for him. The gentleman let him go, and waited to see what would be the upshot. But the Cordelier, hearing the valet coming after him with shouts to Friar John, and making no doubt that the lady had been recognised, turned upon the valet with a great iron-bound staff, gave him such a blow on the side that he knocked him off his horse, and springing instantly upon him with the poniard, speedily dispatched him. The gentleman, who from a distance had seen his valet fall, and supposed that this had happened by some accident, spurred towards him at once to help him. As soon as he was within reach, the Cordelier struck him a blow of the same staff with which he had struck the valet, unhorsed and fell upon him ; but the gentleman, being very strong, threw his arms round the Cordelier, and hugged him so roughly, that he not only prevented his doing him any more mischief, but made him drop the poniard. The wife caught it up at once and gave it to her husband. At the same time she seized him by his hood and held him with all her might, whilst her husband stabbed him several times with the poniard. The Cordelier, being unable to do anything else, begged for quarter, and confessed the crime he had committed. The gentleman granted him his life, and begged his wife to go for his people, and a cart to carry the prisoner away, which sha did, throwing off her Cordelier’s robes, and hurrying home in her shift and cropped hair. The gentleman’s retainers all hastened to help him to bring home the wolf he had captured ; and the culprit was afterwards sent by the gentleman to Flandersto be tried by the emperor’s officers. He not only confessed the crime for which he was tried, but also avowed a fact, which was afterwards verified on the spot by special commissioners sent for that purpose, which was, that several other ladies and handsome girls had been taken to that convent in the same manner as this Cordelier had attempted to carry off the lady of whom we are speaking; and if he did not succeed, this was owing to nothing else than the goodness of God, who always takes upon Him the defence of those who trust 2 oS The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. in Him. The girls and the other stolen spoil found in the monastery were removed, and the monks were burned with the monastery, in perpetual memorial of a crime so horrible. We see from this that there is nothing more cruel than love when its principle is vice, as there is nothing more humane or more laudable when it dwells in a virtuous heart.* 1 am very sorry, ladies, that truth does not furnish us with so many tales to the advantage of the Cordeliers as contrariwise. I like this order, and should be very glad to know some story in which I could praise them. But we are so pledged to speak the truth, that I cannot conceal it after the report of persons so worthy of belief; though, at the same time, I assure you that if the Cordeliers of the present day did anything worthy of memory which was to their honour, I would do justice to it with more alacrity than I have told the truth in the story I have just related to you. “In good faith, Geburon,” said Oisille, “that sort of love might well be called cruelty.” “ I am surprised,” said Simontault, “ that he did not ravish the lady at once when he saw her in her shift, and in a place where he was master.” “ He was not picksome but gluttonous,” said Saffredent. “As he intended to have his fill of her every day, he had no mind to amuse himself with nibbling at her.” “That is not it,” said Parlamente. “A ruffian is always timorous. The fear of being surprised and losing his prey made him carry off his lamb, as the wolf carries off a sheep, to devour it at his ease.” “ I cannot believe he loved her,” said Dagoucin, “ nor can I conceive that so exalted a passion as love should enter so cowardly and villanous a heart.” “ Be it as it may,” said Oisille, “ he was well punished for it. I pray God that all who do the like deeds may suffer the like penalties. But to whom do you give your voice ?” * Notwithstanding what is said in the prologue to the fourth day respecting the recent origin of this tale, it is found in several writers of earlier date. It is identical, for instance, with a fabliau by Rutebeuf, entitled Frlre Denise (See Fabliaux de Legrand'd'Aussy), iv. 383, and has some resemblance to No. LX. of the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles. The Queen of Navarre’s tale has been copied by Henry Stephens, in his Apology for Herodotus, by L’Etoile, in his journal of the reign of Henri HI., anno 1577, and by Malespini, in his Ducento Novell No. LXXV. Novel 32 .] Fourth Day. 209 “To you madam,” said Geburon, “for I know you will not fail to tell us a good tale.” “If new things are good,” replied Oisille, “I will tell you one which cannot be bad, since the event happened in my time, and I have it from an eye-witness. You are, doubtless, not ignorant that'death being the end of all our woes, it may, consequently, be called the beginning of our felicity and our repose. Thus man's greatest misery is to wish for death and not be able to obtain it. The greatest ill which can befall a criminal is not to be put to death, but to be made to suffer so much that he longs for death, while his sufferings, though continual, are of such a nature as not to be capable of abridging his life. It was in this way that a gentleman treated his wife, as you shall hear.” NOVEL XXXII. A husband surprises his wife in flagrante delicto , and subjects her to a punish. ment more terrible than death itself. ING CHARLES VIII. sent to Germany a gentleman named Bernage, Lord of Sivray, near Amboise. This gentleman, travelling day and night, arrived very late one evening at the house of a gentleman, where he asked for a night’s lodging, and obtained it, but with difficulty. The owner of the house, nevertheless, learning in whose service he was, came to him and begged he would excuse the incivility of his servants, stating that certain of his wife’s relations, who meant him mischief, obliged him to keep his doors thus closed, oernage told him on what business he was travelling, and his host expressing his readiness to render the king his master all possible services, received his ambassador into his house, and lodged and treated him honourably. Supper-time being come, he showed him into a richly-tapestried hall, where, entering from behind the hangings, there appeared the most beautiful woman that ever was seen ; but her hair was cropped close, and she was dressed in black garments of German cut. After the gentleman had washed with Bernage, water was set before this lady, who washed also, and took her seat at the end of the table without speaking to anyone, or anyone to her. Bernage often looked at her, and thought her one of the handsomest women he had ever seen, except that her face was very pale, and her air extremely sad. After she had eaten a little, she asked for drink, which was P 210 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. given to her by a domestic in a very singular vessel. This was a death’s head, th holes of which were stopped with silver ; and out of this vessel she drank two or three times. After she had supped and washed, she made a reverence to the master of the house, and retired again behind the tapestry without speaking to anyone. Bernage was so surprised at this extraordinary spectacle that he became quite sombre and pensive. His host perceived this, and said 10 him, “You are surprised, I see, at what you have beheld at table. Now, the courteous demeanour I have marked in you does not permit me to make a secret of the matter to you, but to explain it, in order that you may not suppose me capable of acting so cruelly without great reason. That lady whom you have seen is my wife, whom I loved more than man ever loved woman. I risked everything to marry her, and I brought hei hither in spite of her relations. She, too, evinced so much love for me that I would have hazarded a thousand lives to obtain her. We lived long in such concord and pleasure that I esteemed myself the happiest gentleman in Christendom ; but honour having obliged me to make a journey, she forgot hers and the love she had for me, and conceived a passion for a young gentle¬ man I had brought up in this house. I was near discovering the fact on my return home, but I loved her so ardently that I could not bring myself to doubt her. At last, however, experience opened my eyes, and I saw what I feared more than death. The love I had felt for her changed into fury and despair. Feigning one day to go into the country, I hid myself in the chamber which she at present occupies. Soon after my pretended de¬ parture, she retired to it, and sent for the young gentleman. I saw him enter the room and take liberties with her which should have been reserved for me alone. When I saw him about to enter the bed with her, I issued from my hiding-place, seized him in her arms, and slew him. But as my wife’s crime seemed to me so great that it would not have been a sufficient punish¬ ment for it had I killed her as I had killed her gallant, I imposed upon her one which I believe is more insupportable than death ; which was, to shut her up in the chamber in which she used to enjoy her stolen pleasures. I have hung there in a press all the bones of her gallant, as one hangs up something precious in a cabinet; and that she may not forget them at her meals, I have her served, as she sits opposite to me at table, with the skull of that ingrate instead of a cup, in order that she may see living him whom she has made her mortal enemy by her crime, and 211 Novel 32 .] Fourth Day. dead, for her sake, him whose love she preferred to mine. In this way, when she dines and when she sups, she sees the two things which must afflict her most, namely, the living enemy and the dead friend ; and all this through her guilt. In other respects, I treat her as I do myself, except that her hair is cropped ; for the hair is an ornament no more appropriate to the adulteress than the veil to a harlot: therefore her cropped head denotes that she has lost honour and chastity. If you please to take the trouble to see her, I will take you into her room.” Bernage willingly accepted the offer, and going down stairs with his host, found the lady seated alone by an excellent fire in a very handsome chamber. The gentleman drew back a curtain which concealed a great press, and there he saw all the bones of a man suspended. Bernage had a great wish to speak to the lady, but durst not for fear of the husband, until the latter, guessing his thoughts, said to him, “ If you like to say anything to her, you will see how she expresses herself.” “Your patience, madam,” said Bernage, turning to her, “is equal to your torture; I regard you as the most unhappy woman in the world.” The lady, with eyes filled with tears, and with incomparable grace and humility, replied, “ I confess, sir, that my fault is so great, that all the ills which the master of this house, whom I am not worthy to call husband, could inflict upon me, are nothing in comparison to the grief I feel for having offended him.” So saying she wept profusely. The gentleman took Bernage by the arm and led him away. Next morning he continued his journey upon the king’s service ; but on taking leave of the gentleman he could not help saying to him, “The esteem I entertain for you, sir, and the courtesies you have shown me in your house, oblige me to tell you that, in my opinion, considering the great repentance of your poor wife, you ought to forgive her; the more so as you are young and have no children. It would be a pity that a house like yours should fall, and that those who perhaps do not love you should become inheritors of your substance.” The gentleman, who had resolved never to forgive his wife, pondered long over what Bernage had said to him, and at last, owning that he had spoken the truth, promised that if she perse¬ vered in her present humility, he would forgive her after some time. Bernage, on his return to the court, related the whole story to the king, who directed inquiries to be made into the matter, and found that it was all just as Bernage had reported. tit The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. The description he gave of the lady’s beauty so pleased the king that he sent his painter, Jean de Paris, to take her portrait ex- actlv as she was, which he did with the husband’s consent. After she had undergone a long penance, and always with the same humility, the gentleman, who longed much for children, took pity on his wife, reinstated her, and had by her several fine children. If all those wives who have done the same sort of thing had to drink out of similar vessels. I am greatly afraid, ladies, that many a gilt cup would be turned into a death’s head. God keep us from the like, for if his goodness does not restrain, there is not one of us but may do worse ; but if we trust in Him, He will guard those who own that they cannot guard themselves. Those who rely on their own strength run great risk of being tempted, and of being constrained by experience to acknowledge their infirmity. I can assure you that there are many who have stumbled through pride in this way, whilst others, who were re¬ puted less discreet, have been saved through their humility. The old proverb says truly. “What God keeps is well kept.’’ “ I look upon the punishment inflicted in this case as quite reasonable,” said Parlamente ; “for as the offence was worse than death, so also ought the penalty to be.” “ I am not of your opinion,” said Ennasuite. “ I would rather see the bones of all my lovers hung up in my cabinet all my life long than die for them. There is no misdeed that cannot be repaired, but from death there is no return.” “ How can infamy be repaired ? ” asked Longarine. “ Do what she may, you know that a woman cannot retrieve her honour after a crime of this nature.” “ I should like to know,” returned Ennasuite, “if the Magdalen is not now in more honour among men than her sister who was a virgin ? ” “ I admit,” replied Longarine, “ that we praise her for her love for Jesus Christ, and for her great penitence ; nevertheless, the name of sinner clings to her always.” “Much I care what name men give me,” said Ennasuite; “ only let me have God’s pardon and my husband’s too, there is no reason why I should wish to die.” “ If this lady loved her husband as she ought,” said Dagoucin, “ I am surprised she did not die of grief at looking upon the bones of him whom her crime had brought to death.” “Why, Dagoucin,” said Simontault, “have you yet to learn that, women know neither love nor regret ?” Novel 33.J Fourth Day ai* “Yes,” he replied, “ for I have never rer.tured to prove then love for fear of finding it less than I should have wished.” “You live, then, on faith and hope,” said Normerfide, “as the plover lives on wind. You are easily kept.” “ I content myself with the love I feel in my own heart,” he replied, “and with the hope that there is the same in the hearts cf ladies. But if I was quite sure that that love corresponded to my hope, I should feel a pleasure so extreme that I could not sustain it and live.” “ Keep yourself safe from the plague,” said Geburon, “ for as for the other malady, I warrant you against it. But let us see to whom Madame Oisille will give her voice.” “I give it,” she said, “to Simontault, who I know will spare no one.” “That is as much as to say that I am rather given to evil speaking,” said he. “ I shall, nevertheless, let you see that people who have been regarded in that same light have yet spoken the truth. I believe, ladies, you are not so simple as to put faith in everything a person tells you, however sanctified an air he may assume, unless the proof is clear beyond doubt. Many an abuse is committed under the guise of a miracle. Therefore I intend to relate to you a story not less honourable to a religious prince than shameful to a wicked minister of the church.” NOVEL XXXIII. Incest of a priest, who got his sister with child under the cloak of sanctity, ana how it was punished. HE Count Charles d’Angouleme,* father of Francis I., and a prince of great piety, being one day at Coignac, some one told him that in a village named Cherves there was a maiden who lived with such austerity that it was a marvel, yet she was with child, and did not even make any secret of it, but assured everybody that she had never known man, and that she knew not how it had happened to her, unless it was the work of the Holy Ghost. The people readily gave credit to this delusion, and looked upon the girl as a second Virgin Mary, the more so as she had been known to be so well-behaved from her childhood, and never to have shown the least sign of a disposition to mundane vanities. She not only fasted at the seasons appointed by the church, but also made several voluntary * This story is told of the father of Queen Margaret, and is doubtless founded on fact. 2 i4 7 J 5 * Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. fasts every week, and never stirred from the church as long as there was any service going on in it. The common people made so much account of this manner of life that everyone flocked to see her, as though she were a living miracle, and fortunate was he who could touch her gown. The priest of the parish was her brother, a man in years, of an austere life, and a reputed saint. So rigorously did he treat his sister, that he had her shut up in a house, whereat the people were greatly displeased, and the affair made so much noise that it came, as I have already said, to the ears of Count Charles, who, seeing the delusion into which everybody had fallen, resolved to put an end to it. To this end, he sent a referendary and an almoner, both of them worthy men, to ascertain the truth. They went to the spot, inquired into the fact as carefully as possible, and applied to the priest, who was so vexed at the affair that he begged them to be present at the verification he hoped to make of it. Next morning the priest celebrated mass, his sister, who was very big, being present on her knees. After it was over, he took the co?'pus Domini , and said to his sister, in presence of the whole congrega¬ tion, “Wretch that thou art, here is He who suffered death for thee, in whose presence I ask thee if thou art a virgin as thou hast always assured me.” She replied boldly and fearlessly that she was so. “ How, then, is it possible that thou art pregnant, yet still a virgin ? ” “ All I can say,” she replied, “ is, that it is the grace of the Holy Ghost, who does in me whatever he pleases ; but also I cannot deny the grace which God has done me in preserving me a virgin. Never have I had even a thought of marrying.” Her brother then said to her, “ I give thee here the precious body of Jesus Christ, which thou wilt take to thy damnation if thou dost not speak the truth ; whereof will be witnesses these gentlemen, who are here present on the part of my lord the count.” The girl, who was about thirteen years of age, then made oath as follows :—“ 1 take the body of our Lord here present to my condemnation before you, sirs, and you my brother, if ever man has touched me any more than you.” So saying, she received the body of our Lord. The referendary and the almoner went away quite confounded, not being able to believe that anyone would lie after such an oath, and they made their report to the count, whom they tried to bring to entertain the same belief as themselves. But he, being a wise man, after much thought, made them repeat the verv words of the oath ; and having well weighed them, he said, “ She told you that never man touched her any more than her brother. I am Novel 33 .] . Fourth Day. 215 persuaded that it was her brother who got her with child, and that she seeks to conceal his incest by prevarication. We, who believe that Jesus Christ is come, must not expect another. Return then to the place, and put the priest in prison ; I am sure he will confess the truth.” They executed their orders, but unwillingly, and not without remonstrating against the necessity of putting such a scandal upon a good man. The priest was no sooner committed to prison than he confessed his crime, and owned that he had instructed his sister to speak as she had done in order to conceal the intercourse between them, and this not only to baffle inquiry by so slight a device, but also to secure to themselves universal esteem and veneration by this false statement. Being asked how he could carry his wickedness to such an excess as to make his sister swear upon our Lord’s body, he replied that his audacity had not reached that length, and that he had used an ordinary wafer, which was neither consecrated nor blessed. All this having been reported to the Count d’Angouleme, he sent the affair before the courts of justice. Execution was de¬ layed until the sister was delivered of a fine boy. After her delivery the brother and sister were burnt, to the great astonish¬ ment of all the people, who had beheld a monster so horrible under such a garb of holiness, and so detestable a crime under the appearances of a life so laudable and regenerate. The good Count d’Angouleme’s faith, ladies, was proof against outward signs and miracles. He knew that we have but one Saviour, who, when he said consummatum est, showed thereby that we are not to expect a successor for our salvation. “ Truly,” said Oisille, “ that was a monstrous piece of effrontery covered with unparalleled hypocrisy. It is the height of impiety to cover so enormous a crime with the mantle of God and religion.” “ I have heard,” said Hircan, “ that those who commit acts of cruelty and tyranny under pretence of having the king’s com¬ mission are doubly punished, the reason being that they make the king’s name a cover for their injustice. Likewise, it is seen that although hypocrites prosper for some time under the cloak of godliness, God no sooner unmasks them than they appear such as they are; and then their nakedness, their filth, and their infamy are the more horrible, the more august and sacred was the wrapper with which they concealed them.” “ There is nothing more agreeable,” said Nomerfide, “than to speak frankly and as the heart feels.” 216 The Hepta?neron of the Queen f Navarre. 44 It serves to make one fat,” replied Longarine, “ and I imagifct you decide from your own case.” “Let me tell you,” returned Nomerfide, “ I remark that fool.i live longer than the wise, unless some one kills them ; for which I know but one reason, namely, that fools do not dissemble their passions. If they are angry they strike ; if they are merry, they laugh ; but those who deem themselves wise hide their defects with so much care that their hearts are all poisoned with them ” “I believe that is true,” said Geburon, “and that hypocrisy, whether as regards God, men, or nature, is the cause of all the evil that befalls us.” 44 It would be a fine thing,” said Parlamente, 44 if faith so filled our hearts with Him who is all virtue and all joy, that we should show them to everyone without disguise.” “ That will be when there is no longer any flesh on our bones, K observed Hircan. “Yet,” remarked Oisille, “the spirit of God, which is mightief than death, can change our hearts without changing ourbodiesA 44 You speak, madam,” said Saffredent, “of a gift which God hardly makes to men.” “ He does make it,” rejoined Oisille, 44 to those who have faith. But as this is a matter above the comprehension of flesh, let us see to whom Simontault gives his voice.” “To Nomerfide,” he said. “As she has a merry heart, I do not think her words will be sad.” 44 Since you have a mind to laugh,” said Nomerfide, 44 I must serve you after your own way, and give you matter for laughter. I wish to show you that fear and ignorance are equally mis¬ chievous, and that one often sins only for want of knowing things. With this view, I will relate to you what happened to two poor Cordeliers of Niort, who, for not understanding the language of a butcher, had like to die of fright.” NOVEL XXXIV. Two over-inquisitive Cordeliers had a great flight, which had like to cost them their lives. WO Cordeliers arrived late one night at Grip, a village belonging to the Lord of Fors, situated between Niort and Fors, and took up their quarters with a butcher. As their bedroom was separated from their host’s only by an ill-jointed boarded partition, they had a mind to listen to Novel 34.] Fourth Day. 217 what passed between the husband and wife, and they clapped their ears to the partition close to the head of the host’s bed. As the butcher had no suspicion of his guests, he talked to his wife about his business, and said, “ My dear, I must be up betimes to-morrow, and see about our Cordeliers. One of them is very fat ; we will kill bim and salt him forthwith, and we shall make a good thing of him.” Though the butcher talked of his pigs, which he called Cordeliers, the two poor friars, hearing this, set it all down to their own account, and awaited daylight with great terror. One of them was very fat, the other very lean ; and the fat one set about confessing himself to his companion, alleging that a butcher, having lost the love and fear of God, would make no more of slaughtering them than an ox or any other beast. As they were shut up in their chamber, from which there was no issue but through their host’s, they gave themselves up for dead men, and earnestly commended their souls to God. The young man, who was not so overcome by fear as the elder, said to him, that since they could not get out at the door, they must try to escape through the window ; at the worst they could only be killed in the attempt, and death one way or the other was the same thing in the end. The fat friar consented to the expedient. The young one opened the window, and, as it was not very high, dropped lightly to the ground, and ran away as fast and as far as he could, without waiting for his companion, who was not so lucky, for, being very bulky, he fell so heavily that he hurt one leg severely, and was unable to rise from the ground. De¬ serted by his companion and unable to follow him, he looked about for some place where he might hide, and saw nothing but a pigsty, into which he dragged himself the best way he could. When he opened the door, two big porkers which were inside rushed out, and left the place free to the Cordelier, who shut himself in, hoping that he might hear people passing by, to whom he would call and obtain help. As soon as daylight appeared, the butcher got ready his big knives, and told his wife to come and help him to kill the two pigs. Going to the sty, he opened the little door, and cried out, “Come, turn out here, my Cordelier. I’ll have your chitterlings for my dinner to-day.” The Cordelier, who could not stand on his leg, crawled out on his hands and knees, roaring for mercy. If he was in a great fright, the butcher and his wife were no less so. The first idea that came into their heads was that St. Francis was angry with them because they had called pigs II8 ' The Heptamcrtn of the Queen of Navarre. Cordeliers , and under that notion they fell on their knees before the poor friar, begging pardon of St. Francis and his order. On the one side was the Cordelier bawling for mercy to the butcher, on the other side the butcher making the same appeal to the Cordelier. At last the Cordelier, finding that the butcher had no intention of hurting him, told him why he had hid himself in that place. Fear then gave place to laughter, except on the part of the poor friar, whose leg pained him so much that he had no inclination to laugh. The butcher, to console him in some degree, took him back to the house and had his hurt carefully attended to. As for his companion, who had forsaken him in distress, he ran all night, and arrived in the morning at the house of the Lord of Fors, where he made loud complaints of the butcher, who, he supposed, had by that time killed his com¬ panion, since the latter had not followed him. The Lord of Fors sent, immediately to Grip to see how matters stood, and his messengers brought back matter for laughter, which he failed not to communicate to his mistress, the Duchess d’Angouleme mother of Francis I. It is not good, ladies, to listen to secrets when one is not invited, and to have a curiosity to hear what others say. “ Did not I tell you,” exclaimed Simontault, “that Normerfide would not make us cry, but laugh ? Every one of us, I think, has done so very heartily.” “Whence comes it,” said Oisille, “that one is always more disposed to laugh at a piece of nonsense than at a good thing ? ” “ Because,” replied Hircan, “the nonsense is more agreeable to us, being more conformable to our own nature, which of itself is never wise. Thus everyone is fond of his like : fools love folly, and wise men wisdom. I am sure, however, that neither fools nor wise could help laughing at this story.” “ There are some,” said Geburon, “ who are so engrossed with the love of wisdom that nothing you could say to them would make them laugh. Their joy and their satisfaction are so moderate that no accident is capable of altering them.” “ Who are these persons ? ” inquired Hircan. “The philosophers of past times,” replied Geburon, “who hardly felt either mirth or sadness ; at least, they showed no manifestation of either, so possessed were they with the belief that there is virtue in vanquishing oneself.” “ I am as much convinced as they that it is good to vanquish a vicious passion,” said Saffredent, “but to vanquish a natural Novel 34. Fourth Day. 219 passion, which has no evil tendency, seems to me a useless victory.” “ Nevertheless, that was regarded as a great virtue,” re¬ marked Gebur^n. “ But then,” returned Saffredent, “it is not said that all the ancients were sages ; and I would not swear that there was not in them more of the appearance of sense and virtu* than of the reality.” “You see, however,” said Geburon, “ that they condemn every¬ thing that is bad, and even that Diogenes trampled on Plato’s coverlet because he thought it too rich and curious ; and to show that he despised and wished to trample under foot Plato's vain¬ glory and avarice, * I trample,’ said he, ‘on the pride of Plato.’ ” “You do not tell all,” replied Saffredent ; “you forget that Plato at once retorted upon him, ‘ Thou tramplest on it, indeed, but with still more pride.’ In fact, it was only through a certain arrogance that Diogenes despised elegance.” “In truth,” said Parlamente, “it is impossible to overcome ourselves by ourselves ; nor can one think to do so without pro¬ digious pride, the vice of all others the most to be feared, since • it rears itself upon the ruins of all the rest.” “Did I not read to you this morning,” said Oisille, “that those who believed themselves wiser than others, and who came by the light of reason to know a God, the creator of all things, for having been vain thereof, and not having attributed this glory to Him to whom it belonged, and for having imagined that they had acquired this knowledge by their own labours, became more ignorant and less reasonable—I will not say than other men, but than the very brutes ? In fact, their minds having run astray, they ascribed to themselves what belongs to God alone, and manifested their errors by the disorders of their lives, forgetting their very sex, and abusing it, as St. Paul says in his Epistle to the Romans.” “ There is not one of us,” said Parlamente, “ but recognises, on reading that epistle, that outward sins are the fruits of inward unbelief, the more dangerous to eradicate the more it is covered by virtue and miracles.” “We men,” said Hircan, “are nearer to salvation than women, for as they do not hide their fruits they easily know their roots. But you women, who dare not produce yours, and who do so many acts that are fair in appearance, hardly know the root of pride, that grows under so goodly a covering.” “I own,” said Longarine, “that if God’s word does not show a* o The Heptcuneron of the Queen of Navarre. us by faith the leprosy of unbelief that is hidden in our hearts, God does us a great grace when He suffers us to commit a visible fault, which manifests our hidden disposition. Blessed are they whom faith has so humbled that they have no need of outward acts to make them conscious of the weakness and corruption of their natures.” “ Do let us consider, I beseech you,” said Simontault, “ wh 1486. 230 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre, “ He ought not to have poisoned her,” said Longarine, “ foi since his first great wrath was past, she might have lived with him like an honest woman, and nothing would ever have been said about the matter.” “ Do you suppose,” said Saffredent, “that he was appeased, though he pretended to be so ? For my part, I’m persuaded that the day he mixed his salad his wrath was as hot as on the very first day. There are people whose first emotions never subside until they have accomplished the dictates of their passion.” “ It is well to ponder one’s words,” said Parlamente, “when one has to do with people so dangerous as you. What I said is to be understood of an anger so violent that it suddenly en¬ grosses the senses, and hinders reason from acting.” “ I take it in ihat very sense,” replied Saffredent, “ and I say that of two men who commit a fault, he who is very amorous is more pardonable than the other who is not so ; for when one loves well, reason is not easily mistress. If we would speak truly, we must own there is not one of us but has some time or other experienced that furious madness, and yet hopes for grace. Let us say, then, that true love is a ladder by which to ascend to the perfect love which we owe to God. No one can ascend to it but through the afflictions and calamities of this world, and through the love of his neighbour, to whom he ought to wish as much good as to himself. This is the true bond of per¬ fection ; for as St. John says, ‘ How can you love God whom you do not see, unless you love your neighbour, whom you do see ? ’ ” “There is no fine text in Scripture which you may not warp to your own purposes,” said Oisille. “ Beware of doing like the spider, which extracts a poison from every good viand ; for I warn you that it is dangerous to quote Scripture out of place, and without necessity.” “ Do you mean to say, then,” returned Saffredent, “ that when we talk to your unbelieving sex, and call God to our aid, we take his name in vain? .If there is sin in this, it all lies at your door, since your unbelief constrains us to use all the oaths we can think of ; and even so we cannot kindle your icy hearts.” “A plain proof,” said Longarine, “that you all lie ; for if you spoke the truth, it is so potent that it would persuade us. All that is to be feared is lest the daughters of Eve too easily believe in the serpent.” “I see plainly how it is," said Saffredent; “the women are Novel 37. Fourth Day . 231 invincible. So I give up the game to see on whom Ennasuite will call/’ “ On Dagoucin,” she said, “who, I think, will not be disposed to speak against the ladies.” “Would to God,” said he, “that they were as favourable to me as I am disposed to speak so of them. To show you that I have endeavoured to do honour to the virtuous of their sex by the pains I have taken to learn their good actions, I will relate one of those to you. I will not say, ladies, that the patience of the gentleman of Pampelune and of the president of Grenoble was not great, but I maintain that their vindictiveness was nc less so. In praising a virtuous man, we must not so much exalt a single virtue as to make it serve as a cloak and cover for so great a vice. A woman who has done a virtuous action for the love of virtue itself is truly laudable. An instance of this I will give you in the story I am about to tell you of a young married lady, whose good deed had for motive only the honour of God and the salvation of her husband.” NOVEL XXXVII. Judicious proceedings of a wife to withdraw her husband from a low intrigue with which he was infatuated. CERTAIN lady of the house of Loue was so good and virtuous that she was loved and esteemed by all her neighbours. Her husband with good reason confided to her all his affairs, which she managed so discreetly that in a short while their house became under her hands one of the richest and best furnished in Anjou and Touraine. She lived long with her husband, and had several fine children by him ; but as there is no enduring felicity here below, hers began to be crossed. Her husband, not feeling satisfied with a life of such perfect ease, had a mind to try if trouble would increase his enjoyment. His wife was no sooner asleep than he used to get up from beside her, and not return till daylight. The lady took this conduct so much to heart that falling into a profound melancholy, which yet she tried to conceal, she neglected the affairs of her house, her person, and her family, thinking she had lost the fruit of her labours in losing her husband’s love, to preserve which there was no pains she would not willingly have sustained. But as she saw he was lost to her, she became so negligent of every¬ thing else that the consequences were soon seen in the mischief 232 The H'eptameron of the Queen of Navarre. that ensued. On the one hand, the husband spent without order or measure ; on the other hand, the wife no longer attending to the affairs of the house, they soon became so involved that the timber began to be felled, and the lands to be mortgaged. One of her relations, who knew her secret grief, remonstrated with her on the fault she committed, and told her that if she did not regard the fortunes of the family for her husband’s sake, she ought at least to consider her poor children. This argument struck her; she rallied her spirits, and resolved to try by every means to regain her husband’s love. Next night, perceiving that he rose from beside her, she also got up, put on her night-wrapper, had her bed made, and sat down to read for hours until his return. When he entered the room, she went up and kissed him, and presented a basin and water to him to wash his hands. Her husband, astonished at this extra¬ ordinary behaviour, told her that he had only been to the privy, and that he had no need to wash. She replied, that although it was no great matter, still it was decent to wash one’s hands when one came from so nasty a place, thereby wishing to make him know and hate his wicked way of life. As this did not produce any amendment in him, she continued the same course of pro¬ ceeding for a year, but still without success. This being the case, one night, when she was waiting for her husband, who stayed away longer than usual, she took it into her head to go after him. She did so, and looking for him in cham¬ ber afier chamber, she at last found him in a back lumber-room in bed with the ugliest and dirtiest servant wench about the house. To teach him to quit so handsome and so cleanly a wife tor so ugly and frousy a servant, she took some straw and set it on fire in the middle of the room. But seeing that the smoke would as soon smother her husband as awake him, she pulled him by the arm, crying out “ Fire 1 fire!” If the husband was ashamed and confounded at being found by so worthy a wife with such a swinish bedfellow, it was not without great reason. “For more than a year, sir,” said his wife, “have I been endea¬ vouring by gentleness and patience to withdraw you from such a wicked life, and make you comprehend that, while washing the outside, you ought to make the inside clean also ; but when I saw that all my efforts were useless, I bethought me of employing the element which is to put an end to all things. If this does not correct you, sir, I know not if I shall be able another time to withdraw you from the danger as I have done now. I pray you to consider that there is no greater despair than that of slighted Novel 37.J Fourth Day . 233 love, and that if I had not had God before my eyes, I could not have been patient so long.” The husband, glad to be let off so cheaply, promised that for the future he would never give her cause for sorrow. The wife gladly believed him, and with his consent turned away the ser¬ vant who offended her. They lived so happily afterwards that even past faults were for them a source of increased satisfaction, in consequence of the good that had resulted from them. If God gives you such husbands, ladies, do not despair, I entreat you, before you have tried all means to reclaim them. There are four-and-twenty hours in the day, and there is not a moment in which a man may not change his mind. A wife ought to esteem herself happier in having regained her husband by her patience, than if fortune and her relations had given her one more faultless. * “There,” said Oisille, “is an example for all married women to follow.” “ Follow it who will,” said Parlamente ; “but for my part it would be impossible for me to be so patient. Although, in every condition in which one is placed, patience is a fine virtue, it seems to me, nevertheless, that in matrimonial matters it at last pro¬ duces enmity. The reason is that, suffering from one’s mate, one is constrained to keep aloof from the offender as much as pos¬ sible. From this alienation springs contempt for the faithless one, and this contempt gradually diminishes love ; for one loves a thing only in proportion as one esteems it.” “But it is to be feared,” said Ennasuite, “that the impatient wife would meet with a furious husband, who, instead of patience, would cause her sorrow ” “And what worse could a husband do than we have just heard ?” said Parlamente. “What could he do?” rejoined Ennasuite. “Beat his wife soundly, make her sleep on the little bed, and put her he loves into the best bed.”f “ I believe,” said Parlamente, “ it would be less painful to a * The subject of this novel is the same as that of the story of the Dame de Langalier, related by the Seigneur de Latour-Landry to his daughters, in the book he wrote for their instruction. (See Leroux de Lincy, Femmes Cittbrcs de V Ancienne France , i. 356.) + In France, formerly, It was customary to have in all well-furnished bed¬ rooms two beds, a principal one and another much smaller for the confidential servant, who always slept in his master’s room. See Novel XXXIX. 2 j4 The Heptamer on of the Queen of Navarre. right-minded woman to be beaten in a fit of passion than to be despised by a husband who was not worthy of her. After the rupture of wedded affection, the husband could do nothing which could be more painful to the wife. Accordingly, the tale states that the lady took pains to bring back the truant only for the sake of her children—a fact I can readily believe." “ Do you think it a great proof of patience in a woman,” said Normefide, “ to kindle a fire on the floor of a roomi n which her husband is sleeping ? ” “Yes," said Longarine, “for when she saw the smoke she woke him up ; and that was perhaps the greatest fault she com¬ mitted, for the ashes of such husbands would be good to make lye withal." “You are cruel, Longarine," said Oisille. “Yet that is not the way in which you lived with your husband." “No," replied Longarine, “for, thank God, he never gave me cause ; on the contrary, I must regret him as long as I live, instead of complaining of him." “ And if he had treated you otherwise," said Normefide, “ what would you have done?” “1 loved him so much,” replied Longarine, “that I believe I should have killed him and myself afterwards. After having thus avenged myself, I should have found more pleasure in dying than in living with a faithless man.” “So far as I can see," observed Hircan, “you love your husbands only for your own sakes. If they commit the least fault on Saturday, they lose their whole week’s labour. Do you want to be mistresses, then ? For my part, I am willing to have it so, if other husbands will consent to it." “ It is reasonable that the man should rule us," said Parla- mente ; “ but it is not reasonable that he should forsake and ill- use us.’’ “ God has so wisely ordained, both for the man and for the woman," said Oisille, “that I believe marriage, provided it be not abused, is one of the best and happiest conditions in life. I am persuaded that all present are as much impressed with that opinion as myself, or even more so, however they may affect to think otherwise. As the man esteems himself wiser than the woman, the fault will be more severely punished if it comes from him. But enough of this. Let us know on whom Dagoucin will call." “ On Longarine," was the reply. “ You give me great pleasure," said Longarine ; “ for I have a Novel 38. | Fourth Day. 235 story which is worthy to follow yours. Since we are upon the praise of virtuous patience in ladies, I will tell you of one whose conduct was still more laudable than hers of whom you have just heard, and was the more commendable as she was a city lady, a class who are usually less trained to virtue than others.” NOVEL XXXVIII. Memorable charity of a lady of Tours with regard to her faithless husband. HERE was at Tours a handsome and discreet bourgeoise, who, for her virtues, was not only loved but feared by her husband. However, as husbands are frail, and often grow tired of always eating good bread, hers fell in love with one of his mdtay£res.* He used frequently to go from Tours to visit his mdtairie, always remained there two or three days, and always came back so jaded and out of sorts that his poor wife had trouble enough to set him up again. But no sooner was he himself once more, than back he would go to his m^tairie, where pleasure made him forget all his ailments. His wife, who loved his life and health above all things, seeing him always come back in such a bad plight, went to the mdtairie, where she found the young woman whom her husband loved, and said to her, not angrily, but in the gentlest manner possible, that she knew her husband often visited her, but was sorry she treated him so badly as invariably to send him home ill. The poor woman, constrained by respect for her mistress and by the force of truth, had not courage to deny the fact, and besought pardon. The Tourangeaude f desired to see the room and the bed in which her husband slept. The room struck her as so cold and dirty that she was struck with pity, and sent straightway for a good bed, fine blankets, sheets, and counterpane after her husband’s taste. She had the room made clean and neat, and hung with tapestry, gave the woman a handsome service of plate, a pipe of good wine, sweetmeats, and confections, and begged her for the future not to send her husband back to her in so broken-down a condition. It was not long before the husband went to see the mdtay&re as usual ; and great was his surprise to find the sorry room be- * Melayere. It was usual in France, before the Revolution, for the owner of a farm to supply the tenant with seed, &c., and to receive a proportion of th« crop in lieu of rent. A farm managed on this principle was called a metairie , and the farmer a metayer, feminine, metayere. f Woman of Touraine. 236 The Heptameron oj the Queen oj Navarre . come so neat, but still greater was it when she gave him a silver cup to drink out of. He asked her where it came from, and the poor woman told him with tears that it was his wife who, pitying his poor entertainment, had thus furnished the house, er joining her to be careful of his health. Struck by the great goodness of his wife, who thus returned so much good for so much evil, the gentleman reproached himself for ingratitude as great as his wife’s generosity. He gave his m£tay&re money, begged her thenceforth to live like an honest woman, and went back to his wife. He confessed the whole truth to her, and told her that her gentleness and goodness had withdrawn him from a bad course, from which it was impossible he should ever have escaped by any other means ; and forgetting the past, they lived thenceforth together in great peace and concord.* There are very few husbands, ladies, whom the wife does not win in the long run by patience and love, unless they are harder than the rocks which yet the weak and soft water pierces in time. “ Why, this woman had neither heart, nor gall, nor liver ! ” exclaimed Parlamente. “What would you have?” said Longarine; “she did as God commands, rendering good for evil.” “I fancy,” said Hircan, “that she was in love with some Cordelier, who ordered her as a penance to have her husband so well treated in the country, in order that while he was there she might have leisure to treat himself well in town.” “ In this you plainly show the wickedness of your own heart,” said Oisille, “judging so ill of a good deed. I believe, on the contrary, that she was so penetrated by the love of God that she cared for nothing but her husband’s welfare.” “It strikes me,” said Simontault, “that he had more reason to return to his wife during the time he was in such bad case at the m^tairie than when he was made so comfortable there.” “ I see,” said Saffredent, “that you are not of the same way of * This tale is related by the author of the Menagier de Paris, i. 237, ed. 1847, published by the Soci^te des Bibliophiles Frangais. It is the 72nd of Morlini, and is in the manuscript copy of the Varii Succedi of Orologi, mentioned by Borromo. The French and Italian tales agree in the most minute circum. stances, even in the name of the place where the lady resided. Erasmus also relates this tale in one of his colloquies, entitled Uxor Me/ixf/aya/ios sive Con- lugium ; and it occurs in Albion’s England, a poem by William Warner, who was a celebrated writer in the reign of Queen Elizabeth ; those stanzas which contain the incident have been extracted from that poetical epitome of English history, and published in Percy’s Relics under the title of the Patie.it Countess Novel 39 ] Fourth Day. 23 } thinking as a rich man of Paris, who, when he lay with his wife, could not lay aside the least of his mufflings without catching cold ; but when he went to see the servant girl in the cellar, without cap or shoes, in the depth of winter, he never was a bit the worse for it. Yet his wife was very handsome, and the servant very ugly.” “ Have you not heard,” said Geburon, “that God always helps madmen, lovers, and drunkards ? Perhaps the Tourangeau was all three,” “Do you mean thence to infer,” said Parlamente, “that God does nothing for the chaste, the wise, and the sober ? ” “ Those who can help themselves,” replied Geburon. “have no need of aid. He who said that he came for the sick and not for the hale came by the law of his mercy to aid our infirmities, and cancelled the decrees of his rigorous justice ; and he win? thinks himself wise is a fool in the sight of God. But to end the sermon, whom do you call upon, Longarine ? ” “ On Saffredent,” she said. “Then I will prove to you by an example.” said he “that God does not favour lovers. Though it has been alreadv said, ladies, that vice is common to women and to men, yet a woman will invent a cunning artifice more promptly and more adroitly than a man. Here is an example of the fact.” NOVEL XXXIX. Secret for driving away the hobgoblin. LORD of Grignaux, gentleman of honour to Anne Duchess of Brittany and Queen of France, returning home after an absence of more than two years, found his wife at another estate he had, not far from that in which he usually resided. He asked the reason of this, and was told that the house was haunted by a spirit, which made such a disturbance that no one could live in it. Monsieur de Grignaux who was not a man to give credit to these fancies, replied that 11 .. vas the devil himself he should not fear him, and took his wife home with him to their usual abode. At night he had plenty of torches lighted, the better to see this spirit ; but, after watching a w-ng time without seeing or hearing any¬ thing, he at last fell asleep. No sooner had he done so than he was awakened by a sound box on the ears, after which he heard a voice crying, “ Brenigne, Brenigne,” which was the name of his deceased grandmother He called to a woman who slept in 238 The Heptamreon of the Queen of Navarre. the chamber to light a candle, for he had had all the torches put out, but she durst not rise. At the same time, Mtnsieur de Grignaux felt his bed-clothes pulled off, and heard a great noise of tables, trestles, and stools tumbled about the room with a din that lasted until day. But he never believed that it was a spirit; he was not so frightened as vexed at losing his night’s rest. On the following night, being resolved to catch Master Goblin, he had no sooner lain down than he pretended to snore with all his might, keeping his open hand over hts face. While thus await¬ ing the arrival of the spirit, he heard something approach, and began to snore louder than ever. The spirit, which by this time had become familiar, gave him a great thump, whereupon Monsieur de Grignaux seized its hand, crying out, “Wife, I have caught the spirit.” His wife rose instantly, lighted a candle, and behold you, it turned out that the spirit was the girl who slep* in their chamber. She threw herself at their feet, begging to be forgiven, and promised to tell them the truth, which was, that the love she long entertained for a domestic had made her play this trick in order to drive the master and mistress out of the house, and that they two, who had charge of it, might make good cheer, which they failed not to do when they were alone. Monsieur de Grignaux, who was not a man to be trifled with, had them both beaten in a manner they never forgot, and then turned them both out of doors. In this way he got rid of the spirits who had haunted his house for two years. Love, ladies, works wonders. It makes women lose all fear, and torment men to arrive at their ends. Condemning the wicked¬ ness of the servant, we must equally applaud the good sense of the master, who knew that the departed spirit does not return. “ Decidedly,” said Geburon, “ the valet and the wench were not then favoured by love. I agree with you, however, that the master had need of much good sense.” “ The girl, however,” said Ennasuite, “lived for a long while to her heart’s content by means of her stratagem.” “That is a very wretched content,” said Oisill^ /vnich begins with sin and ends with shame and punishment.” “That is true,” rejoined Ennasuite; “but there are many persons who suffer whilst living righter*\sly, and whc have not the wit to give themselves in the course of their lives as much pleasure as the pair in question.” “I firmly believe,” replied Oisille, “that there is no perfect pleasure unless the conscience is at rest.” Novel 40 .] Fourth Day . 239 “The Italian maintains,” said Simontault, “ that the greater the sin the greater the pleasure.” “One must be a perfect devil to entertain such a thought,” said Oisille ; “but let us drop the subject, and see to whom Saffredent will give his voice.” “No one remains to speak but Parlamente,” said Saffredent; “but though there were a hundred others, she should have my voice, as a person from whom we are sure to learn something.” “Since I am to finish the day,” said Parlamente, “and pro¬ mised yesterday to tell you why Rolandine’s father had the castle built in which he kept her so long a prisoner, I will now fulfil my word.” NOVEL XL. The Count de Jossebelin has his brother-in-law put to death, not knowing the relationship. HE Count de Jossebelin, father of Rolandine, had several sisters. Some made wealthy marriages, others became nuns, and one, who was incomparably handsomer than the rest, remained in his house unmarried. The brother was so fond of this sister that he preferred neither his wife nor his children to her ; and though she had many eligible offers of marriage, they were all rejected, from his fear of losing her, and being obliged to pay down money. Consequently she remained a great part of her life unmarried, living with strict propriety in her brother’s house. There was a young and handsome gentle¬ man who had been reared in the house, and who as he grew in age grew also in personal and mental endowments, to that degree that he completely governed his master. When the latter had any message to send his sister, he always made this young gentle¬ man the bearer of it; and as this took place morning and evening, it led to such a familiarity as presently ripened into love. The young gentleman durst not for his life offend his master; the demoiselle was not without scruples of honour ; and so they had no other fruition of their love than in conversing together, until the brother had said again and again to the lover that he wished he was of as good family as his sister, for he had never seen a man he would rather have for a brother-in-law. This was repeated so often that after consulting together, the lovers came to the conclusion that if they married secretly they should easily be forgiven. Love, which makes people readily believe what they desire, persuaded them that no bad consequences would ensue #40 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. for them ; and with that hope they married, unknown to anyone except a priest and some women. After having for some years enjoyed the pleasure which two handsome persons who passionately love each other can recipro¬ cally bestow, fortune, jealous of their happiness, roused up an enemy against them, who, observing the demoiselle, became aware of her secret delights, being yet ignorant of her marriage. This person went and told the brother that the gentleman in whom he had such confidence visited his sister too often, and at hours when a man ought never to enter her chamber. At first he could not believe this, such was his trust in his sister and the gentleman. But, as he loved his house’s honour, he caused them to be observed so closely, and set so many people on the watch, that the poor innocent couple were at last surprised. One evening, word being brought the brother that the gentle¬ man was with his sister, he went straightway to her chamber, and found them in bed together. Choking with rage and unable to speak, he drew his sword, and ran after the gentleman to kill him ; but the latter, being very nimble, evaded him ; and, as he could not escape by the door, he jumped out of a window that looked upon the garden. The poor lady threw herself in her shift on her knees before her brother, crying, “Spare my husband’s life, monsieur, for I have married him, and if he has offended you» let me alone suffer the punishment, for he has done nothing but at my solicitation.” “ Were he a thousand times your husband,” replied the incensed brother, “ I will punish him as a domestic who has deceived me.” So saying, he went to the window, and called out to his people to kill him, which was forthwith done before his eyes and those of his sister. At this sad spectacle, which her prayers and supplications had been unable to prevent, the poor wife was like one distracted. “ Brother,” she said, “ I have neither father nor mother, and I am of an age to marry as I choose. I chose a man whom you told me repeatedly that you would have liked me to marry. And because I did so, as by law I had a right to do without your interference, you put to death the man you loved best in the world. Since my prayers have not availed to save him, I conjure you by all the affection you ever had tor me to make me the companion of his death, as 1 have been of all his fortunes. Thereby you will glut your cruel and unjust wrath, and give repose to the body and soul of a wife who will not and cannot live without her husband.” TROISIEME JOURNEE Nouvelle 24 Novel 40 .] Fouith Day. 241 Though the brother was beside himself with passion, he had so much pity on his sister that, without saying yes or no, ht left her and withdrew. After having carefully investigated the matter, and ascertained that the murdered man had been wedded to his sister, he would have been glad if the deed had not been done. Being afraid, however, that his sister, to revenge it, would appeal to justice, he had a castle built in the midst of a forest, and there he confined her, with orders that no one should be admitted to speak to her. Some time after, to satisfy his conscience, he tried to conciliate her, and caused her to be sounded upon the subject of marriage ; but she sent him word that he had given her such a bad dinnei she had no mind to be regaled with the same dish for supper; that she hoped to live in such wise that he should never have the pleasure of killing a second husband of hers ; and that after dealing so villanously with the man he loved best in the world, she could not imagine that he would pardon another.* She added, that notwithstanding her weakness and impotence, she trusted that He who was a just judge, and would not suffer wrong to go unpunished, would do her the grace to avenge her, and let her finish her days in her hermitage in meditating on the love and charity of her God. And this she did. She lived in that place with so much patience and austerity that after her death every one visited her remains as those of a saint. From the moment of her death her brother’s house began to fall into decay, so that of six sons not one remained to continue it. They all died miserably ; and in the end Rolandine, his daughter, remained sole heiress of all, as you have been told in another tale, and suc¬ ceeded to her aunt’s prison.* I wish, ladies, that you may profit by this example, and that none of you may think of marrying for your own pleasure, with¬ out the consent of those to whom you owe obedience. Marriage is an affair of such long duration that one cannot engage in it with * Josselin, a little town of LeMorbihan, was included in the domains of the Viscount of Rohan, whose name the Queen of Navarre disguises by calling him Count of Jossebelhi. Jean II., Viscount of Rohan, had one uterine sister, named Catherine, and several half sisters. Catherine de Rohan, who is said by the authors of Histoire Gtnealogique de la Matson de France, iv. 57, to have died unmarried, is the heroine of this novel, and the murder of the Count of Reradreux, for which the Viscount of Rohan was imprisoned, is no doubt the one of which the Queen of Navarre speaks. a 242 The Heptamcron of the Queen of JSlavarre. too much deliberation ; and deliberate ever so well and so sagely, yet cne is sure to find in it at least as much pain as pleasure. “ Were there no God or law to teach maidens discretion,” said Oisille, “the example might suffice to make them have more respect for their relations than to marry without their knowledge.” “ Nevertheless, madam,” replied Nomerfide, “ when one has one good day in the year, one is not wholly unfortunate. She had the pleasure of seeing and conversing for a long time with him whom she loved better than herself. Besides, she enjoyed it through marriage without scruple of conscience. I regard this satisfaction as so great that, to my thinking, it fairly counter¬ balanced the grief that subsequently befel her.” “ You mean to say, then,” said Saffredent, “that the pleasure of bedding with a husband is more to a woman than the pain of seeing him killed before her eyes.” “ No such thing,” said Nomerfide ; were I to say so, I should speak contrary to my own experience of women. What I mean is, that an unaccustomed pleasure like that of marrying the man one loves best must be greater than the pain of losing him by death, which is an ordinary occurrence.” “That maybe true of natural death,” said Geburon, “but the o e in question was too cruel. I think it very strange that this lord, who was neither her father nor her husband, but only her brother, should have dared to commit such a cruel deed, seeing even that his sister was of an age at which the law allows girls to marry as they think fit.” “ For my part, 1 see nothing strange in that,” said Hircan. “ He did not kill his sister, whom he loved so fondly, and over whom he had no jurisdiction ; but he dealt as he deserved with the young gentleman, whom he had brought up as his son, and loved as his brother. He had advanced and enriched him in his service, and then, by way of gratitude, the young gentleman married his sister, which he ought not to have done.” “Again,” resumed Nomerfide, “ it was no common and ordi¬ nary pleasure for a lady of such high family to marry a gentleman domestic. Thus, if the death was a surprise, the pleasure also was novel, and the greater as it was contrary to the opinion of all the Adse, and was helped by the satisfaction of a heart filled with love, and by repose of soul, seeing that God was not offended. As to the death you call cruel, it seems to me that death being necessary, the quicker it is the better ; for do we not know that death is a passage which must inevitably be crossed ? I regard Novel 40.] Fourth Day. *43 as fortunate those who do not linger long in the outskirts of death, and who by good luck, which alone deserves th^t name, pass at one bound into everlasting felicity.” What do you call the outskirts of death ? ” said Simontault. “Sorrows, afflictions, long maladies,” replied Nomerfide. “Those who have to sustain such extreme pangs of body or of mind that they come to despise death and complain of its too tardy approach are in the outskirts of death, and they will tell you how the inns are named in which they have sighed more than reposed. The lady in question could not help losing her husband by death ; but her brother’s anger saved her from the pain of seeing him for a long time an invalid or ill-tempered, and she could deem herself happy in converting to the service of God the satisfaction and joy she had with her husband.” “ Do you count for nothing the shame she underwent and the tedium of her prison ?” said Longarine. “I am persuaded,” replied Nomerfide, “ that when one loves well, and with a love founded on God's command, one makes no account of shame, except so far as it lessens love ; for the glory of loving well knows no shame. As for her prison, as her heart was wholly devoted to God and her husband, 1 tmagine she hardly felt the loss of her liberty ; for where one cannot see what one loves, the greatest blessing one can have is to think of it incessantly. A prison is never narrow when the imagination can range in it as it will.” “Nothing can be truer than what Nomerfide alleges,” said Simontault; but the madman who effected this separation ought to have deemed himself a very wretch, offending as he did God, love, and honour.” “ I am astonished,” said Geburon, that there is so much diversity in the nature of women’s love ; and I see plainly that those who have the most love have the most virtue, but those who have the least love are the virtuous in false seeming.” “ It is true,” said Parlamente, ‘‘that a heart that is virtuous towards God and man loves with more passion than a vicious heart, because the former is not afraid that the real nature of its sentiments should be apparent.” I have always understood,” said Simontault, “ that men are not blameable for paying court to women ; for God has put into the heart of man love and the boldness to sue, and into that of woman fear and the chastity to refuse. If a man has been punished for having used the power implanted in him, he has been treated with injustice.” 244 7 he Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. “ But was it not a monstrous inconsistency in this brother,” said Longarine, ‘‘ to have persisted so long in praising this young gentleman to his sister ? It seems to me that it would be a great folly, not to say cruelty, in a man who had charge of a fountain to praise its water to one who gazed on it, parched with thirst, and then to kill him for offering to drink of it.” ‘‘ The fire of his encomiums on the young man,” said Parla- mente, “ unquestionably kindled the fire of love in the lady’s heart, and he was wrong to put out with his sword a fire he himself had lighted by his sweet words.” ‘‘ I am surprised,” said Saffredent, “that it should be taken amiss that a simple gentleman, by dint of courtship alone, and not through any false pretences, should come to marry a lady of so illustrious a house, since the philosophers maintain that the least of men is worthier than the greatest and most virtuous of women.” “The reason is,” said Dagoucin, ‘‘that in order to preserve the public tranquillity, regard is only had to the degree of the fami¬ lies, the age of the persons, and the laws, men’s love and virtue being counted as nothing, in order not to confound the monarchy. Thence it comes that in the marriages which take place between equals, and in accordance with the judgment of men and of the relations, the persons are often so different in heart, temperament, and disposition, that instead of entering into an engagement which leads to salvation, they throw themselves into the confines of hell.” “ Instances have also been seen,” said Geburon, ‘‘of persons who have married for love, with hearts, dispositions and tempera¬ ments mutually conformable, without concerning themselves about difference of birth, and who have, nevertheless, repented of what they have done. In fact, a great but indiscreet love often changes into jealousy and fliry.” ‘‘To me it seems,” said Parlamente, “that neither the one course nor the other is commendable, and that those persons who submit to the will of God regard neither glory, nor avarice, nor voluptuousness. They alone are to be commended, who, actuated by virtuous love, sanctioned by the consent of their relations, desire to live in the married state as God and nature ordain. Though there is no condition without its troubles, I have yet seen these latter run their course without repenting that they had entered upon it. The present company is not so unhappy as not to number in it married persons of this class.” Thereupon Hircan, Geburon, Simontault, and Saffredent vowed Novel 40.j Fourth Day. 245 that they had all married in that very spirit, and that accordingly they had never repented of the act. Whether that was true or not, the ladies whom it concerned were nevertheless so pleased with the declaration, that, being of opinion they could hear nothing better than it, they rose to go and give thanks for it to God, and found that the monks were ready for the vesper service. Their devotions ended, they supped, but not without reverting to the subject of marriage, everyone recounting his own experience whilst wooing his wife. But as they interrupted each other, it was not possible to make a full record of their several stories, which was a pity, for they were not less agreeable than those they had recounted in the meadow. This conversation was so interesting that bed-time arrived be¬ fore they were aware of it. Madame Oisille was the first to per¬ ceive that it was time to retire, and her example was followed by the rest. All went to bed in the gayest humour, and I do not think the married couples slept more than the others, but spent a part of the night in talking over their affections in times past, and giving each other evidences of its present existence. Thai ibe night passed agreeably away. The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarrt. FIFTH DAY. ADAME OISILLE, as soon as day had dawned, pre¬ pared for them a spiritual breakfast of such good sa¬ vour, that it fortified their minds and bodies alike ; and the company were so attentive to it, that it seemed that they never heard a sermon to more advantage. The second bell for mass having rung, they went to meditate on the good things they had heard. After mass they took a little walk while waiting for dinner, anticipating as agreeable a day as the pre¬ ceding one. Saffredent said that he was so charmed with the good cheer they made and the recreation they enjoyed, that he could wish it might be a month yet before the bridge was finished ; but as it was no comfort to the abbot to live along with so many respectable people into whose presence he durst not bring h*s usual female pilgrims, he urged the workmen to make all possible speed. When the company had rested awhile after dinner, they returned to their usual pastime, and everyone being seated, they asked Parlamente who should begin. “ It strikes me,” she said, “ that Saffredent would do very well, for his face does not seem to me adapted to make us cry.” "Nay, ladies, you will be very cruel,” he replied, " if you bestow no pity upon a Cordelier whose story I am going to relate to you. You will say, perhaps, as has been already remarked of other incidents of this kind, that they are things which have happened to ladies, and would not have been at¬ tempted but for the facility of their execution ; but that is not the case : on the contrary, you shall see from the example I am about to adduce, that the Cordeliers art so blind in their lust, that they know neither fear nor prudence.” NOVEL XLI. Strange"and novel penance imposed by a cordelier confessor on a young lady. HEN Margaret of Austria came to Cambrai on the the part of the emperor her nephew to negotiate the peace between him and the Most Christian King, who sent on his part Louise of Savoy his mother, there was inthe suite of Margaret of Austria the Countess of Aiguemont, 247 Novel 41 .] Fifth Day. who passed in that assembly for the most beautiful of the Flemish fadies. After the conference the Countess of Aiguemont re¬ turned home, andt he season of Advent being come, she sent to a monastery of Cordeliers, requiring a preacher, a good man, fit to preach to and confess the countess and her household. The warden, who received great benefits from the house of Aiguemont, and from that of Fiennes, to which the countess belonged, sent the best preacher in the society, and the one who was regarded as the most upright man. He performed his duty very well in preaching the Advent sermons, and the countess was perfectly satisfied with him. On Christmas night, when the countess intended to receive her Creator, she sent for her confessor, and after having well and duly confessed in a chapel carefully closed that the confession might be more secret, she gave place to her lady of honour, who, having made her confession, next sent her daughter. After the young penitent had told all she knew, the good confessor knew something of her secrets, which prompted him to impose upon her an extraordinary penance, and he was bold enough to say to her, “ Your sins, my daughter, are so great, that I order you, for nenance, to wear my cord on your bare flesh.” The demoiselle, who had no wish to disobey him, replied, “ Give it me, father, and I will not fail to wear it.” “ No, daughter,” replied the holy man. it would not be meet for you to fasten it on. That must be done by these very hands from which you are to receive absolution, and afterwards you will be absolved from all your sins.” The demoiselle began to cry, and said she would do no such thing. “What!” exclaimed the confessor, “are you a heretic, to refuse the penances which God and our holy Mother Church have ordained ? ” “ I make of confession the use which the Church has com¬ manded,” replied the demoisille. “ I am quite willing to receive absolution and to do penance ; but I will not have you put your hands to it; for in that case. I refuse to submit to your penance.” "That being the case,” said the confessor, " I cannot give you absolution.” The demoisille withdrew, sorely troubled in conscience, for she was so young that she was afraid she had transgressed by the refusal she had given to the reverend father. After mass was over, and the Countess of Aiguemont had taken the commu¬ nion, her lady of honour, intending to do the same, asked her daughter if she was ready. The girl replied, with tears, that she 248 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre had not yet confessed. “ Then, what have you been doing so long with the preacher ? ” inquired her mother. “ Nothing,” replied the daughter ; " for as I would not submit to the penance he ordered me, he would not grant me absolu¬ tion.” Thereupon the mother questioned her so shrewdly, that she learned the nature of the extraordinary penance which the monk wished to impose upon her daughter. She made her confess to another, and afterwards they both communicated. As soon as the countess returned from church, the lady of honour complained to her of the preacher, to the countess’s great surprise, for she had a very good opinion of him. All her anger, however, did not hinder her from laughing at the oddity of the penance ; but neither did her laughter hinder her from having the good father chastised. He was handsomely thrashed in the kitchen, and so compelled, by dint of blows, to confess the truth ; after which, he was sent away, bound hand and foot, to his warden, with a request that another time he would commission better men to preach the word of God. Consider, ladies, if the monks do not scruple to display their wickedness in so illustrious a house, what are they not capable of doing in the poor places to which they commonly go to make their gatherings, and where they have such full opportunities that it is a miracle if they quit them without scandal ? This obliges me to entreat, ladies, that you will change your scorn into com¬ passion, and consider that the power which can blind the v Cordeliers does no* spare the ladies, when he finds them a fair mark for his shafts. “Assuredly, this was a wicked Cordelier,” said Oisille. “A monk, a priest, and a preacher, to be guilty, on Christmas-day, of such an infamy, and that in the house of God, and under the sacred veil of confession 1 This was carrying impiety and villany to the very climax.” “ Why,” said Hircan, “ to hear you talk, one would think the Cordeliers should be angels, or more chaste than other men ; but they are quite the reverse, as you must know from many an example. As for this one, it appears to me that he was very excusable, finding himself, as he did. shut up alone with a handsome girl.” “Nay,” said Oisille, “but it was Christmas night.” “ The very thing that makes him the more excusable,” said Simontault, “for being in Joseph’s place, beside a beautiful Novel 41.] Fifth Day. 249 virgin, he had a mind to try and beget a baby, in order to play the mystery of the Nativity to the life.” “Truly,” said Parlamente, “if he had ihought of Joseph and the Virgin Mary, he would not have harboured such a wicked purpose. At any rate, he was an audac ious villain to make such a criminal attempt upon no encouragement.” “The manner in which the countess had him castigated,” said Oisille,” might serve, methinks, as a warning to others like him.” “I do not know if she did well,” said Nortnefide, “ thus to scandalise her neighbour, and if it would not have been better to remonstrate with him on his fault in private and gently, than thus to divulge it.” “That I think would have been better,” said Geburon, “for we are commanded to reprove our neighbour in secret, before we speak of his offence, not only to the Church, but to any person whatever. When a man is deprived of all motives on the side of honour, it is very hard for him to reform ; and the reason is, that shame keeps as many from sin as does conscience.” “ I think,” said Parlamente, “ that every one should practise the precepts of the Gospel, and it is very scandalous that those who preach them should do the reverse ; therefore, we need have no fear of scandalising those who scandalise others. On the contrary, it appears to me meritorious to make them known tor what they are,-so that we may be on our guard against their wiles with regard to the fair sex, who are not always wary and prudent. But to whom does Hircan give his voice ?” Since you ask me,” he replied, “ I give it to you, to whom no sensible man could refuse it.” “ Well, then,” rejoined Parlamente, “ I will tell you a story to which I can testify of my own knowledge. I have always heard that the weaker the vessel in which virtue abides, and the more violently it is assaulted by a powerful and formidable antagonist, the more worthy is it of praise, and the more conspicuously is its nature displayed. That the strong defends himself against the strong is no matter for wonder ; but to see the weak beat the strong is a thing to be extolled by all the world. Knowing the persons of whom I mean to speak, methinks it would be wronging the truth I have seen hid under so mean a garb that no one made any account of it, if I did no* speak of her by whom were done the honourable actions of which I am about to tell you.” ** 5 ° Tht Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. NOVEL XLII. Chaste perseverance of a maiden, who resisted the obstinate pursuit of one of the greatest lords in France—agreeable issue of the affair for the demoiselle. HERE once lived in one of the best towns of Touraine a lord of great and illustrious family, who had been brought up from his youth in the province. All I need say of the perfections, beauty, grace, and great qualities of this young prince is, that in his time he never had his equal. At the age of fifteen, he took more pleasure in hunting and hawk¬ ing than in beholding fair ladies. Being one day in a church, he cast his eyes on a young girl who, during her childhood, had been brought up in the chateau in which he resided. After the death of her mother, her father had withdrawn thence, and gone to reside with his brother in Poitou. This daughter of his, whose name was Francoise, had a bastard sister, whom her father was very fond of, and had married to this young prince’s butler, who maintained her on as handsome a footing as any of her family. The father died, and left to Francoise for her portion all he possessed about the good town in question, whither she went to reside after his death ; but as she was unmarried and only sixteen, she would not keep house, but went to board with her sister. The young prince was much struck with this girl, who was very handsome for a light brunette, and of a grace beyond her rank ; for she had the air of a young lady of quality, or of a prin¬ cess, rather than of a bourgeoise. He gazed upon her for a long while ; and as he had never loved, he felt in his heart a pleasure that was new to him. On returning to his chamber, he made in¬ quiries about the girl he had seen at church, and recollected that formerly, when she was veiy young, she used often to play in the chateau with his sister, whom he put in mind of her. His sister sent for her, gave her a very good reception, and begged her to come often to see her, which she did whenever there was any entertainment or assembly. The young prince was very glad to see her, and so glad that he chose to be deeply in love with her. Knowing that she was of low birth, he thought he should easily obtain of her what he sought; and, as he had no opportunity to speak with her, he sent a gentleman of his chamber to her, with orders to acquaint her with his intentions, and settle matters with her. The girl, who was good and pious, replied that she did not believe that so handsome a prince as his master would care to look upon a plain girl like herself, especially Novel 42.] Fifth Day. 251 as there were such handsome ones in the chateau that he had no need to look elsewhere ; and that she doubted not he had said ail this to her out of his own head and without orders from his master. As obstacles make desire more violent, the prince now became more hotly intent on his purpose than ever, and wrote to her, begging her to believe everything the gentleman should say to her on his part She coulci read and write very well, and sh<- read the letter from beginning to end ; but for no entreaties the gentleman could make would she ever reply to it, saying that a person of her humble birth should never take the liberty to wrbe to so great a prince ; but that she begged he would not take her for such a fool as to imagine that he esteemed her enough to love her as much as he said. Moreover, he was mistaken if he fan< ied that because she was of obscure birih, he might do as he phased with her, and that to convince him of the contrary, she felt obliged to declare to him that, bourgeoise as she was, there was no princess whose heart was more upright than hers. There were no treasures in the world she esteemed so much as honour and conscience. And the only favour she begged of him was, that he would not hinder her from preserving that treasure all h^r life long, and that he might take it for certain that she would never change her mind though it were to cost her her life. The young prince did not find this answer to his liking. Nevertheless, he loved her but the more for it, and failed not to lay siege to her when she went to mass ; and during the whole service he had no eyes but to gaze on that image to which he addressed his devotions. But when she perceived this, she changed her place and went to another chapel, not that she dis¬ liked to see him, for she would not have been a reasonable creature if she had not taken pleasure in looking on him ; but she w^s afraid of being seen by him, not thinking highly enough of herself to deserve be ng loved with a view to marriage, and being too high-minded to be able to accommodate herself to a dis¬ honourable love. When she saw that in whatever part of the church she placed herself, the prince had mass said quite near it, she went no more to that church, but to the most distant one she could find. Moreover, when the prince’s sister often sent for her, she always excused herself on the plea of indisposition. The prince, seeing he could not have access to her, had re¬ course to his butler, and promised him a large reward if he served him in this affair. The butler, both to please his master and for the hope of lucre, promised to do so cheerfully. He 252 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. made it a practice to relate daily to the prince all she said anO did, and assured him, among - other things, that she avoided as much as possible all opportunities of seeing him. The prince’s violent desire for an imerview with her, set him upon devising another expedient. As he was already beginning to be a very good horseman, he bethought him of going to ride his great horses in a large open place of the town, exactly opposite to the house of the butler, in which Francoise resided. One day, after many courses and leaps, which she could see from her chamber window, he let himself fall off his horse into a great puddle. Though he was not hurt, he took care to make great moans, and asked if there was no house into which he might go and change his clothes. Every one offered him his own; but some one having remarked that the butler’s was the nearest and the best, it was chosen in preference to any of the others. He was shown into a well furnished chamber, and as his clothes were all muddy, he stripped to his shirt and went to bed. Every one except hij gentleman having gone away to fetch other clothes for the prince, he sent for his host and hostess, and asked them where was Francoise ? They had a good deal of trouble to find her, for as soon as she had seen the prince come in, she had gone and hid herself in the remotest corner of the house. Her sister found her at last, and begged her not to be afraid to come and see so polite and worthy a prince. “What! sister,” said Francoise, “you, whom I regard as my mother, would you persuade me to speak to a young prince of whose intentions I cannot be ignorant, as you well know ? ” But her sister used so many aiguments, and promised sc earnestly not to leave her alone, that Francoise went with her, with a countenance so pale and dejected, that she was an object rather to inspire pity than love. When the young prince saw her at his bedside, he took her cold and trembling hand, and said, “Why, Francoise, do you think me such a dangerous and cruel man that I eat the women I look at ? Why do you so much fear a man who desires only your honour and advantage ? You know that I have everywhere sought in vain for opportunities to see and speak to you. To grieve me the more, you have shunned the places where l had been used to see you at mass, and thereby you have deprived me of the satisfaction of my eyes and my tongue. But all this has availed you nothing. I have done what you have seen in order to come hither, and have run the risk of breaking my neck in order to have the pleasure of speaking Novel 42.] Fifth Day. 253 to you without restraint I entreat you then, Frar.coise, since it would behard for me to have taken all this pains to no purpose, that as I have so much love for you, you will have a little for me.” After waiting a long while for her reply, and seeing she had tear 1 ? in her eyes, and durst not look up, he drew her towards him and llmost succeeded in kissing her. “ No, my lord, no,” she then said, “ what you ask cannot be. Though I am but a worm in comparison with you, honour is so dear to me that I would rather die than wound it in the least degree for any pleasure in the world; and my fear, lest those who have seen you come in conceive a false opinion of me, makes me tremble as you see. Since you are pleased to do me the honour to address me, you wdl also pardon the liberty I take in replying to you as honour prescribes. I am not, my lord, so foolish or so blind as not to see and know the advantages with which God has endowed you, and to believe that she who shall possess the heart and person of such a prince will be the happiest woman in the world. But what good does that do me ? That happiness is not for me or for any woman of my rank ; and I should be. a downright sim¬ pleton if 1 even entertained the desire. What reason can I believe you have for addressing yourself tome, but that the ladies of your house, whom you love, and who have so much grace and beauty, are so virtuous that you dare not ask of them what the lowness of my condition makes you easily expect of me ? I am sure that if you had of such as me what you desire, that weak¬ ness would supply you with matter to entertain your mistresses for two good hours ; but I beg you to believe, my lord, that I am not disposed to afford you that pleasure. I was brought up in a house in which I learned what it is to love. My father and mother were among your good servants. Since then it has not pleased God that I should be born a princess to marry you, or in a rank sufficiently high to be your friend, I entreat you not to think of reducing me to the rank of the unfortunates of my sex, since there is no one who esteems you more than I, or more earnestly desires that you may be one of the happiest princes In Christendom. If you want women of my station for your diver¬ sion, you will find plenty in this town incomparably handsomer than myself, and who will spare you the trouble of soliciting them so much. Attach yourself, then, if you please, to those who will gladly let you buy their honour, and harass no longer a poor girl who loves you better than herself; for if God were this day to require your life or mine, it would be a happiness to 254 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. me to sacrifice mine in order to save yours. If I shun youf person, it is not for wont of love, but rather because I too well love your conscience and mine, and because my honour is more precious to me than my life. I ask you, my lord, if you please, to continue to honour me with your good-will, and I will pray to God all my life for your health and prosperity. It is true that the honour you do me will give me a better opinion of myself among persons of my own station ; for after having seen you, where is the man of my own condition whom I would deign to regard ? Thus my heart will be free and under no obligation, except that which I shall ever acknowledge, to pray to God for you, which is all I can do for you while I live.” Contrary as this reply was to the prince’s desires, nevertheless he could not help esteeming her as she deserved. He did all he could to make her believe he would never love any one but her¬ self ; but she had so much sense that he never could bring her to entertain so unreasonable a notion. Though, during the course of this conversation, it was often intimated to the prince that fresh clothes had been brought him. he was so glad to remain where he was that he sent back word he was asleep. But at last, supper-time being come, and not daring to absent him¬ self from respect for his mother, who was one of the most correct ladies in the world, he went away, more impressed than ever with the excellence of Francoise. He often talked of her to the gentleman who slept in his chamber. That person, imagining that money would be more effectual than love, advised him to present a considerable sum to the girl in consideration of the favour he solicited. As the young prince’s mother was his treasurer, and his pocket money was not much, he borrowed, and out of his own funds and those of his friends he made up a sum of five hundred crowns, which he sent to Francoise by his gentle¬ man, commissioning him to beg that she would change her mind. “Tell your master,” she said, when the gentleman offered her the present, “that my heart is so noble and generous, that were it my humour to do what he desires, his good looks and his pleasing qualities would have already made a conquest of me ; but since these are incapable of making me take the slightest step at variance with honour, all the money in the world could not do it. You will take back his money to him, if you please, for I prefer honest poverty to all the wealth he could bestow upon me.” Baffled by this downright refusal, the gentleman was tempted 10 think that a little violence might succeed, and he dropped Novel 42.] Fifth Day. 2C$ threatening hints of her master’s influence and power. “ Mike a bugbear of the prince,” she said, laughing in his face, '*to those who do not know him ; but I, who know him to be wist and vir¬ tuous, can never believe that you say this by his order; and I am persuaded that he will disavow it all if you repeat it to him. But even were it true that you had his authority for what you say, I tell, you that neither t. rments nor death could ever shake my resolution, for, as I have said before, since love has not changed my heart, no eaithly good or evil can ever effect what that has failed to accomplish,” It was with indescribable \exation that the gentleman, who had undertaken to humanise her, cariied back this answer to his master, whom he urged to carry his point by all possible means, representing to him that it would be shameful for him to have undertaken such a conquest and not achieve it. The young prince, who wished to employ only fair means, and who was afraid, besides, of his mother’s anger if the story got abroad and reached her ears, durst not take any further step, until at last the gentleman suggested to him an expedient, which seemed to him so good, that he felt already as if the fair one was his own. To this end he spoke to the butler, who, being ready to serve his master on any terms, consented to everything required of him. It was arranged, then, that the butler should invite his wife and his sister-in-law to go see their vintage at a house he had near the forest ; he did so, and they agreed to the proposal. The appointed day being come, he gave notice to the prince, who was to go to the same place, accompanied only by his gentleman. But it pleased God that his mother was that day adorning a most beautiful cabinet, and had all her children to help her ; so that the proper time passed by before the prince could get away. This was no fault of the butler’s, who had fully performed his part ; for he made his wife counterfeit illness, and when he was on horseback with his sister-in-law on the croup, she came and told him that she could not go. But the hour having passed by and no prince appearing, “ I believe,” said he to his sister-in- law, “ we may as well go back to town.” “ Who hinders us ? 15 said Francoise. ‘‘ I was waiting for the prince, who had promised to come,” said the butler. His sister, clearly discerning his wicked purpose, replied, “ Wait no longer for him, brother ; for I know that he will not come to-day.” He acquiesced, and took her home again. On arriving there 4^5 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. she let him know her dissatisfaction, and told him plainl) he was the devil’s valet, and did more than he was commanded ; for she was very sure that it was his work and the gentleman’s, not the prince’s ; that they both liked better to tlatter his weaknesses, and gain money, than to do their duty as good servants ; but that since she knew this she would no longer remain in his house. Thereupon she sent for her brother to take her away to his own country, and immediately quitted her sister’s house. The butler having missed his blow, went to the chateau to know why the prince had not come, and met him on the way, mounted on his mule, with no other attendant than his confi¬ dential gentleman. “ Well,” said the prince, the moment he saw him, is she still there ? ” The butler told him what had happened, and the prince was greatly vexed at having missed the rendezvous, which he regarded is his last hope. However, he took such pains to meet Fran- coise, that at last he fell in with her in a company from which she could not escape, and upbraided her strongly for her cruelty to him, and for quitting her brother-in-law’s house. Francoise told him she had never known a more dangerous man, and that he, the prince, was under great obligations to him, since he em¬ ployed in his service not only his body and his substance, but also his soul and his conscience. The prince could not help feeling that there was no hope for him ; he therefore resolved to press her no more, and he continued all his life to entertain a great esteem for her. One of his domestics, charmed by her virtue, wished to marry her; but she could never bring herself to consent without the approbation and command of the prince, on whom she had set her whole affection. She had him spoken to on the subject; he consented to the marriage, and it took place. She lived all her life in good repute, and the prince did her much kindness.* What shall we say ladies? Are we so low spirited as to make our servants our masters ? She whose story 1 have related to you was not to be overcome either by love or by importunity. Let us imitate her example and be victorious over ourselves. Nothing is more praiseworthy than to subdue one’s passions. “I see but one thing to regret in this case,” said Oisille, * The young lord spoken of in this novel is evidently Francis I. ; and the town of Touraine is Amboise, wheie Louise of Savoy resided with her children. Novel 42.] Fifth Day. 257 •' which is, that actions so virtuous did not take place in the time of the historian. Those who have so lauded Lucretia would have left her story to relate the virtues of this heroine. They seem tto me so great that I could hardly believe them, had we not sworn to speak the truth.” “ Her virtue does not seem to me so great as you make it out to be,” said Hircan. “ You must have seen plenty of squeamish invalids, who left good and wholesome food for what was bad and unwholesome. Perhaps this girl loved some one else, for whose sake she despised persons of the first order.” To that Parlamente replied, that the life and end of this girl showed “ that she had never loved but him whom she loved above her life, but not above her honour.” “ Put that out of your head,” said Saffredent, “ and learn what was the origin of that phrase honour , which prudes make such a fuss about. Perhaps those who talk so much about it do not know what it means. In the time when men were not over crafty—the golden age, if you will—love was so frank, simple, and strong that no one knew what it was to dissemble, and he who loved most was the most esteemed. But malignity, avarice, and sin, having taken possession of men’s hearts, drove out from them God and love, and put there, instead of them, self- love, hypocrisy, and feigning. The ladies seeing that they had not the virtue of true and genuine love, and that hypocrisy was very odious amongst mankind, gave it the name of honour. Those, then, who could not compass that true love said that they were forbidden by honour. This practice they have erected into so cruel a law that even those of their sex who love perfectly dissemble, and think that this virtue is a vice ; but such of them as have good sense and sound judgment never fall into this error They know the difference between darkness and light; and know that genuine love consists in manifesting chastity of heart, which Jives upon love alone, and does not pride itself on dissimulation, which is a vice.’" “Yet it is said,” observed Dagoucin, “that the most secret love is the most commendable.” “Secret,” replied Simontault, “for those who might misjudge it, but clear and avowed at least for the two persons concerned.” “ So I understand it,” said Dagoucin. “ Nevertheless, it were better it were unknown by one of the two than known to a third. I believe that the subject of the tale loved the more strongly that she did not declare her love.” “ Be this as it may,” said Longarine, “ virtue is to be esteemed; s 258 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. and th* highest virtue is to overcome one’s own heart. When I conn'd*’ the means and opportunities she had, I maintain that she was entitled to be called a heroine.” “ Since you make self-mortification the measure of virtue,” said Saffredent, “the prince deserved more praise than she did. To be convinced of this, one has only to consider his passion for her, his power, his opportunities, and the means he might have em¬ ployed, yet would not, that he might not violate the rule of perfect affection, which makes the indigent equal to the prince, but contented himself with employing the means which fair dealing permits.” “There is many a one who would not have done that,” said Hhcan. “He is the more to be esteemed,” replied Longarine, “because he overcame the evil disposition common to men. Blessed, un¬ questionably, is he who has it in his power to do evil yet does it not.” “You put me in mind,” said Geburon, “of a woman who was more afraid of offending men than God, her honour, and love.” “Pray tell us the story,” said Parlamente. “ There are people,” he continued, “ who own no God, or who, if they believe there is one, think Him so remote that he can neither see nor know the bad acts they commit ; or if He does, they suppose Him to be so careless and indifferent to what is done here below that he will not punish them. Of this way of thinking was a lady, whose name I shall conceal for the honour of her race, and call her Jambicque. She used often to say that to care only for God was all very well, but the main point with her was to preserve her honour before men. But you will see, ladies, that her prudence and her hypociisy did not save her. Her secret was revealed, as you shall find from her story, in which I will state nothing but what is true, except the names of the persons and the places, which I shall change.” NOVEL XLIII. Hypocrisy of a court lady discovered by the denouement of her amours, which she wished to conceal. PRINCESS of great eminence lived in a very hand¬ some chateau, and had with her a lady named Jam¬ bicque, of a haughty and audacious spirit, who was, nevertheless, such a favourite with her mistress that she did nothing but by her advice, believing her to be the most Nwel 43.] Fifth Day. 259 discreet and virtuous lady of her time. This Jambicque used to inveigh loudly against illicit love ; and if ever she saw that any gentleman was enamoured with one of her companions, she used to reprimand the pair with great bitterness, and tell a very bad tale of them to her mistress, so that she was much more feared than loved. As for her, she never spoke to a man except aloud, and with so much haughtiness that she was universally regarded as an inveterate foe to love ; but, in her heart, she was quite otherwise. In fact, there was a gentleman in her mistress’s service with whom she was as much in love as a woman could be ; but so dear to her was her good name, and the reputation she had made herself, that she entirely dissembled her passion. After suffering for a year, without choosing to solace herself, like other women, by means of her eyes and her tongue, her heart became so inflamed that she was driven to seek the ultimate remedy ; and she made up her mind that it was better to satisfy her desire, provided none but God knew her heart, than to confide it to one who might betray her secret. Having come to this reso¬ lution, one day when she was in her mistress’s chamber, and was looking out on a terrace, she saw the gentleman she loved so much walking there. After gazing on him until darkness concealed him from her sight, she called her little page, and, pointing out the gentleman to him, “ Do you see,” she said, “that gentleman in a crimson satin doublet, and a robe trimmed with lynx fur ? Go and tell him that a friend of his wishes to see him, and is waiting for him in the gallery in the garden.” Whilst the page was doing his errand, she went out the back way, and went to the gallery, after putting on her mask and pulling down her hood. When the gentleman entered the gallery, she first fastened both the doors, so that no one should come in upon them, and then, embracing him with all her might, she said in a low whisper, “This long time, my friend, the love I have for you has made me long for place and time to speak with you ; but my fear for my honour has been so great that I have been constrained, in spite of myself, to conceal my passion. But at last love has prevailed over fear ; and as your honour is known to me, I declare that if you will promise to love me, and never to speak of it to anyone, or inquire whom I am, I will be all my life your faithful and loving friend ; and I assure you I will never love any but you ; but I would rather die than tell you who I am !” The gentleman promised all she asked, and thereby encouraged her to treat him in the same way—that is to say, refuse him nothing. 160 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. It was in winter, about five or six o’clock in the evening, when, of course, he could not see much. But if his eyes were of little service to him on the occasion, his hands were not so. Touching her clothes, he found they were of velvet, a costly stuff in those times, and not worn everyday, except by ladies of high family. As far as the hand could judge, all beneath was neat, and in the best condition. Accordingly he tried to regale her to the best of his ability ; she too performed her part equally well, and the gentleman easily perceived she was married. When she was about to return to the place whence she came, the gentleman said to her. ‘ Highly do I prize the favour you have conferred on me without my deserving it ; but that will be still more precious to me which you will grant at my entreaty. Enchanted as I am by your gracious favour, I beg you will tell me if I am to expect a continuance of it, and in what manner I am to act; for, not knowing you, how am I to address you elsewhere to solicit the renewal of my happiness ? ” “ Give’yourself no concern about that,” replied the fair one, but rely upon it that every evening after my mistress has supped, 1 shall be sure to send for you, if you are on the terrace where you were just now. But, above all things, do not forget what you have promised. When I simply send word that you are wanted, you will understand that I await you in the gallery ; but if you hear speak of going to meat, you may either retire 01 come to our mistress’s apartment. Above all, I beg you never to attempt to know who I am, unless you wish to break our friendship.” The lady and the gentleman then went their several ways. Their intrigue lasted a long while without his ever being able to know who she was, though he had a marvellous longing to satisfy his curiosity on the point. He wearied his imagination in vain to guess who she might be, and could not conceive that there was a woman in the world who did not choose to be seen and loved. As he had heard some stupid preacher say that no one who had seen the face of the devil would ever love him, he imagined that she might possibly be some evil spirit. To clear up his doubts, he resolved to know who she was who received him so graciously. The next time, therefore, that she sent for him, he took some chalk, and in the act of embracing her marked her shoulder without her perceiving it. As soon as she had left him, he hastened to the princess’s chamber, and stationed himself at the door to observe the shoulders of the ladies who entered. It was not long before he saw that same Novel 43.] Fifth Bay. 261 Jambicque advance to the door, with such an air of lofty disdain, that he durst not think of scrutinising her like the others, feeling assured that she could not be the person he sought. But when her back was turned, he could not help seeing the mark of the chalk, though such was his astonishment he could hardly believe his own eyes. However, after having well considered her figure, which corresponded precisely to that he was in the habit of touching in the dark, he was convinced that it was she herself; and he was very glad to see that a woman who had never been suspected of having a gallant, and was renowned for having refused so many worthy gentlemen, had at last fixed upon him alone. Love, who never remains in one mood, could not suffer him long to enjoy that satisfaction. The gentleman conceived such a good opinion of his own powers of pleasing, and flattered him¬ self with such fair hopes, that he resolved to mak his love known to her, imagining that when he had done so. he should have reason to love her still more passionately. One day, when the princess was walking in the garden, the Lady Jambicque turned into an alley by herself. The gentleman, seeing her alone, went to converse with her, and feigning not to have seen her elsewhere, said to her, “ I have long loved you, mademoiselle, but durst not tell you so, for fear of offending you. This constraint is so irk¬ some to me that I must speak or die ; for I do not believe that any one can love you as 1 do.” Here the Lady Jambicque cut him short, and looking sternly upon him, “Have you ever heard,” she said, “that I had a lover ? I trow not ; and I am amazed at your presumption in daring to address such language to a lady of my character. You have seen enough of me here to be aware that I shall never love any one but my husband. Beware, then, how you venture again to speak to me in any such way.” Astonished at such profound hypocrisy, the gentleman could not help laughing. “You have not always been so rigid, madam,” he said. “ What is the use of dissembling with me ? Is it not better we should love peifectly than imperfectly ?” “I neither love you perfectly nor imperfectly,” replied Jam¬ bicque, “ but regard you just as I do my mistress’s other servants. But if you continue to speak to me in this manner, I am very likely to hate you in such sort that you will repent of having given me provocation.” The gentleman, pushing his point, rejoined, “ Where are the caressss, mademoiselle, which you bestow upon me when I can- 262 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. not see you ? Why deprive me of them now that day reveals your exquisite beauty to me ?” “You are out of your senses,” exclaimed Jambicque, making a great sign of the cross, “or you are the greatest liar in the world ; for I don’t believe I ever bestowed on you more or less caresses than I do this moment. What is it you mean, pray ?” The poor gentleman, thinking to force her from her subter¬ fuges, named the place where he had met her, and told her of the mark he had put upon her with chalk in order to recognise her. Her exasperation was then so excessive that, instead of confessing, she told him he was the most wicked of men to have invented such an in.amous lie against her, but that she would try to make him repent it. Knowing what influence she had with her mistress, he tried to appease her, but all in vain. She rushed from him in fury, and went to where her mistress was walking, who quitted the company with her to converse with Jambicque, whom she loved as herself. The princess, seeing her so agitated, asked her what was the matter? Jambicque concealed nothing, but told her all the gentleman had said, put¬ ting it in so artful a manner and so much to the poor gentleman’s disadvantage, that his mistress that very evening sent him orders to go home instantly, without saying a word to any one, and to remain there until further orders. He obeyed for fear of worse. As long as Jambicque was with the princess he remained in exile, and never heard from Jambicque, who had warned him truly that he should lose her if ever he tried to know her * You may see, ladies, how she, who preferred the world’s respect to her conscience, lost both the one and the other ; for everybody now knows what she wished to conceal from her lover; and through her desire to avoid being mocked by one alone, she has now become an object of derision to all the world. It cannot be said in her excuse that hers was an ingenuous * Brant6me [Dames Galantes, Discours ii.), gives a detailed analysis of this novel in a very lively style, and says of the too-talkative gallant, “ Those who knew the temper of this gentleman will hold him excused, for he was neither cold nor discreet enough to play that game, and mask himself with that dis¬ cretion. According to what I have heard from my mother, who was in the Queen of Navarre’s service and knew some secrets of her novels, and was herself one of the confabulators ( devisantes ), it was my late uncle La Chastai- gneraye, who was brusque, hasty, and rather volatile.” This Seigneur de La Chastaign<-raye is the same who fought the famous duel with the Sire de Jarnac, in which he was killed with a sword-pass known by the name of coup de Jarnac Brantome says that the lady was a grande dame , but he does not name her. Novel 44 .] Fifth Day. 263 love, the simplicity of which claims every one’s p'.fy ; for what makes her doubly deserving of condemnation is that her design was to cover the wickedness of her heart witn the mantle of glory and honour, and pass before God and man for what she was not. But He who will not give His glory to another was pleased to unmask her, and make her appear doubly infamous. “Truly,” said Oisille, “ this woman was wholly inexcusable; for who can say a word for her, since God, honoui, and love are her accusers ? ” “Who?” exclaimed Hircan, “why, pleasure and folly, two great advocates for the ladies.” ‘‘If we had no other advocates,” said Parlamente, “our cause would be ill defended. Those who let pleasure get the better of them, ought no longer to call themselves women, but men ; for the honour of that sex is not sullied but exalted by lust and concupiscence. A man who revenges himself on his enemy, and kills him for giving him the lie, passes for a brave man, and is so, indeed. It is the same thing when a man loves a dozen women besides his own wife. But the honour of women has a different foundation—that is to say, gentleness, patience, and chastity.” “ You speak of the wise among them,” rejoined Hircan. “ I do not choose to know any others,” said Parlamente. “ If there were no foolish ones,” said Nomerfide, “ those who would fain be believed by everybody would prove to have been often liars.” “Pray, Nomerfide,” said Geburon, “let me give you my voice, in order that you may tell us a tale to that purpose.” “ Since virtue constrains me, and you make it my turn, I will tell you what I know to that effect. I have not heard any one here present fail to speak to the disadvantage of the Cordeliers, and in pity for them I propose to say some good of them in the tale you are about to hear.” NOVEL XLIV. A cordelier received a double alms for telling the plain truth. CORDELIER came to the bouse of Sedan to ask Madame de Sedan, who was of the house of Coucy, for a pig she used to give them every year as alms. Monseigneur de Sedan, who was a wise and facetious man, made the good father eat at his table, and to put him on his 264 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. mettle, he said to him among other things, “You do well, good father, to make your gatherings whilst you are not known, for I am greatly afraid that if once your hypocrisy is discovered, you will no longer have the bread of poor children earned by the sweat of their fathers.” The Cordelier was not abashed by this remark, but replied, “ My lord, our order is so well founded that it will endure as long as the world, for our foundation will never fail so long as there are men and women on earth.” Monseig¬ neur de Sedan being curious to know what was this foundation he spoke of, pressed him strongly to tell. After many attempts to excuse himself, the Cordelier said, “ Know, my lord, that we are founded on the folly of women ; and as long as there is a foolish woman in the world, we shall not die of hunger.” Madame de Sedan, who was very choleric, hearing this speech, flew into such a passion that if her husband had not been there, she would have had the Cordelier roughly handled ; and she swore very decidedly he should never have the pig she had promised ; but Monseigneur de Sedan, seeing he had not dis¬ guised the truth, swore he should have two, and had them sent to his monastery. Thus it was, ladies, that the Cordelier, being sure that ladies’ offerings could not fail him, contrived to have the favour and the alms of men for speaking the plain truth. Had he been a flatterer and dissembler, he would have been more pleasing to the ladies, but not so profitable to himself and his brethren. The novel was not ended without making the company laugh, especially those of them who knew the lord and lady of Sedan. “ The Cordeliers, then,” said Hircan, “ought never to preach with a view to make women wise, since their folly serves them so well.” “They do not preach to them to be wise,” said Parlamente, “but only to believe themselves so; for those women who are wholly mundane and foolish, give them no great alms ; but those who by reason of frequenting their monasteries, and carrying paternosters marked with a death’s head, and wearing their hoods lower than others, think themselves the wisest, are those who may well be called foolish ; for they rest their salvation on the confidence they have in those unrighteous men whom, in consideration of a little seeming, they esteem demi gods.” “ But who can help believing them,” said Ennasuite, “ seeing that they are ordained by our prelates to preach the Gospel, and reprove us for our sins ? ” Novel 44. J Fifth Day . 265 “Those can,” replied Parlamente, “who have known their hypocrisy, and who know the difference between God's doctrine and the devil’s.” “Jesus ! ” exclaimed Ennasuite, “can you suppose that those people would dare preach a bad doctrine ? ” “ Suppose ? ” returned Parlamente, “ nay, I am sure theie is nothing they believe less than the Gospel ; I mean the bad ones among them, for I know many good men who preach the Scrip¬ tures purely and simply, and live likewise without scandal, without ambition or covetousness, and in chastity that is neither feigned nor constrained. But the streets are not so full of such men as of their opposites; and the good tree is known by its fruits.” “In good faith, I thought,” said Ennasuite, “that we were bound under pain of mortal sin to believe all they tell us from the pulpit of truth, when they speak only of what is in Holy Writ, or adduce the expositions of holy doctors divinely in¬ spired.” ** For my part,” said Parlamente, “ I cannot ignore the fact that there have been among them men of very bad faith ; for I know well that one of them, a doctor in theology and a principal of their order, wanted to persuade several of his brethren that the Gospel was no more worthy of belief than Caesar’s Com¬ mentaries, or other histories written by authentic doctors ; and, from the hour I heard that, I would never believe a preacher’s word, unless I found it conformable to God’s, which is the true touchstone for distinguishing true words and false.” “Be assured,” said Oisille, “that they who often read it in humility will never be deceived by human fictions or inventions; for whoso has a mind filled with truth cannot receive a lie.” “Yet it seems to me that a simple person is more easily .de¬ ceived than another,” observed Simontault. “Yes,” said Longarine, “if you esteem silliness to be sim¬ plicity.” “Isay,” returned Simontault, “that a good gentle, simple woman is more easily beguiled than one who is cunning and crafty.” “ I suppose you know some one who is too full of such good¬ ness,” said Nomerfide ; “ if so, tell us about her.” “ Since you have so well guessed, I will not disappoint you,” replied Simontault ; “ but you must promise me not to weep. Those who say, ladies, that your craltiness exceeds that of men, would find it hard to produce such an example as that 1 am 266 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. about to relate to you, wherein I intend to set forth the great craft of a husbmd, and the simplicity and good nature of his wife.” [The preceding novel and epilogue, which are found in all the MSS., are wanting in the edition of 1588. Claude Gouget has substituted the following for them in that of 1559.] How two lovers cleverly consummated their amours, the issue of which was happy. HERE were in Paris two citizens, one of them a lawyer, the other a silk-mercer, who had always been great friends, and on the most familiar terms. The lawyer had a son named Jacques, a young man very pre¬ sentable in good society, who often visited his father’s friend, the mercer; but it was for sake of a handsome daughter the latter had, named Fran^oise, to whom Jacques paid his court so well that he became assured she loved him no less than he loved her. Whilst matters stood thus, an army was sent into Provence to oppose the descent which Charles of Austria was about to make in that quarter ; and Jacques was forced to join that army, being called out in his order. He had hardly arrived in the camp when he received news of his father’s death. This was a double grief to him : on the one hand, from the loss of his father ; on the other hand, from the obstacles he plainly foresaw he should encounter on his return to seeing his mistress as often as he had hoped. Time allayed the first of these griefs, but made him feel the other more acutely. As death is in the course of nature, and it is usual for parents to die before their children, the grief that is felt for their loss gradually subsides. But if is quite otherwise with love ; for instead of bringing us death, it brings us life, by giving us children who render us immortal, so to speak ; and this it is, principally, which renders our desires the more ardent. Jacques, being then returned to Paris, thought of nothing but how to renew his intimacy with the mercer, in order to traffic in the choicest of his warts under pretext of pure friendship. As Fran^oise had beauty and sprightliness, and had long been marriageable, she had several suitors during the absence of Jacques ; but whether it was that her father was stingy, or that, having but that one child, he wished to establish her well, he had not made much account of any of these suitors. As people do Novel 44.] Fifth Day. 267 not wait now-a-days before talking scandal until they have just grounds for it, especially where the honour of our sex is con¬ cerned, this set people talking ill of Frangoise. Her father, not choosing to do like many others, who, instead of reproving the faults of their wives and children, seem, on the contrary, to incite them thereto, did not shut his ears or his eyes to the popular opinion, but watched his daughter so closely that even those who sought her with no other intention than marriage saw her but rarely, and then only in her mother’s presence. It need not be asked whether or not such vigilance was irksome to Jacques, who could not conceive that they should treat her so rigorously without some important reason to him unknown. This conjecture distressed him, and distracted his feelings between love and jealousy. Resolved at all cost to know what might be this mysterious reason, he proposed to ascertain in the first place if she still retained the same tender sentiments towards him ; and he went about so assiduously that at last he found means one morning at mass to place himself near her, when he perceived from her manner that she was as glad to see him as he her. As he knew that the mother was not so strict as the father, he sometimes took the liberty, when he met them on their way to church, to accost them familiarly and with ordinary politeness ; and this as if he had met them by mere chance, the whole being with a view to prepare matters for the design he meditated. By-and-by, when the year of mourning for his father was nearly expired, he resolved, when changing his garments, to put himself on a good footing, and do honour to his ancestors. He spoke of his intention to his mother, who approved of it, and longed the more ardently to see him well married, as she had but two children, himself and a daughter, who was already settled in life. Like an honourable lady as she was, she en¬ couraged her son to virtue by setting before him the example of a great number of young men of his own age. who were making way by themselves, or at least showed that they were worthy of the parents from whom they derived their being. As the only question now was where they should make their purchases, the good lady said to her son, “ It is my opinion, Jacques, that we cannot do better than to go to Daddy Pierre’s (this was the faiher of Frangoise). He is one of our friends, and would not cheat us.” This was tickling her son where he itched ; however, he stood cut, and said, “ We will go and deal where we are best served, a68 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. and cheapest. However, as Daddy Pierre was the intimate friend of my late father, I shall be very glad to give him the first call before we go elsewhere.” One morning, accordingly, the mother and son went to seethe Sire Pierre, who received them very well, as you know that merchants can do when they scent profit. They had quantities of silk unfolded for their inspection, and chose what suited them ; but they could not agree upon the price, for Jacques haggled on purpose, because his mistress’s mother did not make her ap¬ pearance. At last they left the place without making any pur¬ chase, and went to look elsewhere ; but Jacques could see nothing he liked in any house but his mistress’s, and they re¬ turned thither some time afterwards. Frangoise’s mother was there, and gave them the best possible reception. After the little ceremonies were gone through which are practised in such shops, the mercer’s wife putting a higher price on her goods than her husband had done, “ You are very hard, madam,” said Jacques ; “ but I see how it is. Father is dead, and our friends don’t know us now.” So saying, he pretended to wipe his eyes, as if the thought of his father had drawn tears from them ; but this was only a device to help things forward. His mother, who took the matter up in perfect good faith, said thereupon, in a dolorous tone, “Since the death of my poor good man, we are visited no more than if we had never been known. Little do people care for poor widows.” Hereupon there ensued new demonstrations of friendship, and mutual promises to visit more frequently than ever. Some other merchants now came in, and were taken by the mercer himself into the back shop. The young man took advantage of this favourable moment to say to his mother, “ Madam was formerly in the habit of visiting, on Saints’ days, the holy places in our neighbourhood, especially the convents. If she would take the trouble sometimes to look in upon us in passing, and take her wine, she would do us much honour and pleasure.” The mercer’s wife, who suspected nothing, replied that for more than a fortnight past she had intended to go into their quarter; that she would probably do so on Sunday, if the weather was fine, and would not fail to call and see the lady. The conclusion of this affair was followed by that of the bargain for the silks ; for it was no time to stand out for a trifle, and risk losing such a fine opportunity. Things being in this position, and Jacques considering that he could not bring his project to bear without assistance, he resolved 209 Nazel 44.] Fifth Day. to confide the secret of it to a trusty friend. The two took such good measures together that nothing remained but to put them in execution. Sunday being come, the mercer’s wife and her daughter failed not, on their return from their devotions, to call upon the widow, whom they found chatting with one of her female neighbours in a gallery in the garden, whilst her daughter was walking about the alleys with her brother and his friend, whose name was Olivier. On seeing his mistress, Jacques so commanded his face, that not the least change was visible in it, and he went to welcome the mother and daughter with a gay and unembarrassed air. As elderly people usually seek each other’s society, the three old ladies seated themselves on a bench with their backs turned to the garden, into which the two lovers gradually moved off, and joined the other two who were walking there. After a little exchange of compliments, all four renewed their promenade, in the course of which Jacques recounted his piteous case to Frangoise so movingly that she could neither grant nor refuse what her lover sued for. It needed no more to make him aware that she was smitten. I must tell you that during this ambulatory conversation, in order to prevent suspicion, they frequently passed to and fro before the bench on which the good women were seated, taking care always to talk of trivial and indifferent matters, and now and then romping in the garden. After the old ladies had been accustomed to the noise for htUf an hour, Jacques made a sign to Olivier, who played his part with the other girl so well, that she did not notice the two lovers going into an orchard full of cherries, and inclosed with thick hedges of roses and very tall gooseberry-bushes. They pretended to go into a corner of the orchard to pluck almonds, but it was to pluck prunes. There Jacques, instead of giving his mistress a green gown, gave her a red one, for the colour flushed into her cheeks to find herself surprised before she was aware. They had so quickly gathered their prunes, because they were ripe, that Olivier could not have believed it, but that the girl drooped her head, and looked so ashamed. This betokened the truth to him, for before she walked with her head erect, without any fear that the vein in her eye, which ought to be red, should be seen to have the azure hue. Perceiving her confusion, Jacques recalled her to her usual deportment by suitable remonstrances. The lovers took two or three more turns about the garden, but not without much crying and sobbing on the part of the fair one *• Alas !” she exclaimed, “was it for this you loved me? 270 The Heptameicn of the Queen of Navarre. If I could have thought it, my God ! What shall I do ? I am undone for ever. What account will you make of me henceforth, at least if you are one of those who love only for pleasure ? Oh, that I had died before committing such a fault !” Then followed another violent burst of tears. But Jacques exerted himself so much to console her, and made such promises, confirmed by so many oaths, that before they had taken three more turns about the garden, Jacques made another sign to his friend, and they entered the orchard again by another path. In spite of all she could do, she could not help receiving more pleasure from this second green gown than from the first. In short, she liked it so well that they resolved then and there to seek means for meeting oftener and more commodiously, until such time as her father should be more favourably inclined. A young woman, a neighbour of the mercer’s, distantly related to Jacques, and a good friend to Frangoise, was of great help to them in bringing the good man to reason. I am informed that they continued their intrigue witnout discovery or scandal until the consummation of their marriage. Frangoise, who was an only child, proved to be very rich for the daughter of a shop¬ keeper. It is true that Jacques had to wait for the greater part of his wife’s fortune until the death of the father, who was so close-fisted and distrustful that what he held in one hand he imagined the other stole from him. There, ladies, you have an example of a tender connection well begun, well continued, and better ended : for although it is usual with men to despise a woman or a girl as soon as she has given you what you sue to her for with most eagerness, yet this young man, loving well and in good faith, and having found in his mistress what every husband desires to find in his bride ; knowing, moreover, that the girl was of good family, and correct in all but the fault into which he himself had led her, would not commit adultery elsewhere, or trouble the peace of another household : conduct for which I deem him highly commendable. “ They were both very blameable, however,” said Oisille ; “ nor was the friend even excusable for having ministered to the crime, or at least acquiesced in such a rape.” “ Do you call it a rape when both parties are willing ?” said Saffredent. ** Are there any better marriages than those which are thus brought about by furtive amours ? It has passed into a proverb that marriages are made in heaven ; but this applies neither to forced marriages nor to those which are made for Novel 44.] .Fifth Day. £ ji money, and which are regarded as well and duly approved as soon as the father and mother have given their consent.” ‘‘You may say what you please,” replied Oisille, “ but parental authority must be obeyed, and if there be no father or mother, the will of the other relations must be respected. Otherwise, if everyone was free to marry according to fancy, how many cor- nuted marriages would there not be ? Can anyone imagine that a young man and a girl from twelve to fifteen years of age know what is good for them ? Anyone who should carefully examine would find that there are as many unhappy marriages among those made for love as those made by constraint. Young people who do not know what they want take the first they meet with¬ out inquiry ; and then, when they come gradually to know the mistake they have committed, this knowledge leads them into still greater errors. Those, on the contrary, who have not been married voluntarily, have entered into that engagement by the advice and at the solicitation of persons who have seen more and possess more judgment than themselves : so that, when they come to experience the good they did not know, they enjoy it much better, and embrace it with much more affection.” “Ay, madam,” said Hircan, “but you forget that the girl was of ripe years and marriageable, and that she knew the injustice of her father, who let her virginity grow musty for fear of rubbing the rust off his crown pieces. Do you not know that nature is a frisky jade? She loved, she was loved, she found what she wanted ready to her hand, and she might call to mind the old proverb : ‘ She that will not when she may, when she will she shall have nay.’ All these considerations, added to the promptitude of the assailant, left her no time to defend herself. It has been remarked, too, that immediately afterwards a great change was noticed in her countenance. This change was the result of her dissatisfaction at having had so little time to judge whether the thing was good or bad : accordingly, she did not require very long coaxing to prevail on her to make a second trial.” “For my part,” said Longarine, “I should not think her excusable but for the good faith of the young man, who, acting like an honest man, did not forsake her, but took her such as he had made her; for which I think him the more deserving of praise, as youth in these days is very corrupt. I do not pre¬ tend for all that to excuse his first fault, which virtually amounted to rape with regard to the daughter, and subornation with regard to the mother.” *72 7 he Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. “Not at all, not at all,” interrupted Dagoucin ; “ther? was neither rape nor subornation, but all happened voluntarily, both on the part of the mothers, who did not prevent it, though they were duped, and on that of the girl, who liked it well, and never complained.” “ All this,” said Parlamente, “ was only the consequence of the good-nature and simplicity of the mercer’s wife, who in good faith led her daughter to the butchery without knowing it.” “Why not say to the wedding?” said Simontault, “since this simplicity was not less advantageous to the girl than it was prejudicial to a wife who was too easily the dupe of her husband.” “Since you know the story,” said Nomerfide, “tell it us.” “ With all my heart,” replied Simontault, “ on condition that you promise me not to weep. Those who say, ladies, that you have more craft than men, would find it hard to produce an example like that of which I am going to speak. I purpose to exhibit to you not only the great c^aft of a husband, but also the extreme simplicity and good-nature of his wife.” NOVEL XLV. A husband, giving the innocents to his servant girl, plays upon his wife’s simplicity. HERE was at Tours a shrewd, cunning fellow, who was upholsterer to the late Duke of Orleans, son of King Francis I. Though this upholsterer had become deaf in consequence of a severe illness, he nevertheless retained the full use of his wits, and was so well endowed in that respect that there was not a man in his trade more cunring than himself. As for other matters, you shall see from what I ara about to relate to you how he contrived to acquit himself. He had married a good and honourable woman, with whom he lived very peaceably. He was greatly afraid of displeasing her, and she also studied to obey him in all things. But for all the great affection the husband had for his wife, he was so charitable that he often gave his female neighbours what belonged to her ; but this he always did as secretly as possible. They had a good stout wench as a servant, with whom the upholsterer fell in love. Fearing, however, lest his wife should perceive it, he affected often to scold her. saying she waf the laziest creature he had Ncvel 45.J Fifth Day . 373 ever seen ; but that he did not wonder at it, since her mistress never beat her. One day, when they were talking of giving the Innocents,* the upholsterer said to his wife, “ It would be a great charity to give them to that lazy jade of yours, but it would not do for her to receive them from your hand, for it is too weak, and your heart is too tender. If I were to put my own hand to the job, we should be better served by her than we are.” The poor woman, suspecting nothing, begged that he would perform the operation, confessing that she had neither the heart nor the strength to do it. The husband willingly undertook the commission, and as if he intended to flog the wench soundly, he bought the finest rods he could procure ; and to show that he had no mind to spare her, * The learned Gregory, in his treatise on the Boy Bishop, preserved in his posthumous works, observes that “it hath been a custom, and yet is elsewhere, to whip up the children upon Innocents’ Day morning, that the memorie of Herod’s murder of the Innocents might stick the closer, and in a moderate proportion to act over the crueltie again in kinae.” This custom is mentioned by Haspinian, De Orig. Festor. Christianor. fol. 160 : “ Hujus lanienae trucu- lentissimae ut pueri Christianorum recordentur, et simul discant odium, perse- cutionem, crucem, exilium, egestatemque statim cum nato Christo incipers, virgis coedi solent in aurora hujus diei adhuc in lectulis jacentes a parentibus suis.” That which was at first a serious parody of the martyrdom of Beth¬ lehem, afterwards degenerated into a jocular usage, and persons past the age of childhood, young women especially, were made to play the part of the Inno¬ cents. It is related that a Seigneur du Rivau, taking leave of some ladies to join a hunting-party at a considerable distance, heard one of them whisper to another, “ We shall sleep at our ease, and pass the Innocents without receiving them.” This put Du Rivau on his mettle. He kept his appointment, galloped back twenty leagues by night, arrived at the lady’s house at dawn on Innocents' Day, surprised her in bed, and used the privilege of the season. “ Vous saves," says the author of the Escraigttes ( Veil lees) Dijonnaises, “ que l'on a 4 Dijon cette peute coutume de fouetter les filles le jour des Innocens, la quelle est entretenue par les braves amoureux, pour avoir occasion de donner quelqae chose aux estrennes 4 leurs amoureuses.” Clement Marot has the followirg epigram on this subject: “ Tr6s chere sceur, si je savois oil couche Votre personne au jour des Innocents, De bon matin j’irois en votre couche Veoir ce gent corps que j’aime entre cinq cent*. Adonc ma main (veu l’ardeur que je sens) Ne se pourroit bonnement contenter De vous toucher, tenir, taster, tenter : Et si quelqu’un survenoit d’aventure, Semblant ferois de vous innocenter, Seroit-cc pas honneste couverture ? ” ? I 274 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. he steeped them in pickle, so that the poor woman felt more compassion for her servant than suspicion of her husband. Innocents’ Day being come, the upholsterer rose betimes, went to the upper room, where the servant lay alone, and gave her the Innocents in a very different manner from that he talked of to his wife. The servant fell a-crying, but her tears were of no avail.* For fear, however, that his wife should come up, he began to whip the bedpost at such a rate that he made the rods fly in pieces, and then he carried them broken as they were to his wife. “ I think, my dear,” said he, showing them to her, “ that your servant will not soon forget the Innocents.” The upholsterer having gone out of doors, the servant went and threw herself at her mistress’s feet, and complained that her husband had behaved to her in the most shameful wa> that ever a servant was treated. The good woman, imagining that she spoke of the flogging she had received, interrupted her, and said, “ My husband has done well, and just as I have been begging him to do this month and more. If he has made you smart I am very glad of it. You may lay it all to me. He has not given you half as much as he ought.” When the girl perceived that her mistress approved of such an act, she concluded that it was not such a great sin as she had supposed, seeing that a woman who was considered so virtuous was the cause of it ; and so she never ventured to complain of it again. The upholsterer, seeing that his wife was as glad to be deceived as he was to deceive her, resolved fre¬ quently to give her the same satisfaction, and gained the servant’s consent so well that she cried no more for getting the Innocents. He continued the same course for a long time without his wife’s knowing anything of the matter, until winter came, and there was a great fall of snow. As he had given his servant the Innocents in the garden on the green grass, he took a fancy to give them to her also on the snow ; and one morning, oefore anyone was awake, he took her out into the garden in her shift, to make the crucifix on the snow. They romped and pelted each other, and among the sport that of the Innocents was not forgotten. One of the neighbours, meanwhile, had gone to her window to see what sort of weather it was. The window looked right over the upholsterer’s garden, and the woman saw the game of the Innocents that was going on there, and was so shocked that she resolved to inform her good gossip, that she might no longer be the dupe ot such a wicked husband and vicious servant. After the upholsterer had finished his fine Novel 45.] Fifth Day. 275 game, he looked round to see if he had been noticed by anyone, and to his great vexation he savv his neighbour at her window. But as he knew how to give all sorts of colours to his tapestry, so he thought he should be able to put such a colour on this fact that his neighbour would be no less deceived than his wife. No sooner had he got to bed again than he made his wife get up in her shift, and took her to the very spot where he had been toying with the servant. He frolicked awhile with her at snowball throwing, as he had done with the servant ; next he gave her the Innocents as he had done to the other ; and then they went back to bed. The next time the upholsterer’s wife went to mass, her neigh¬ bour and good triend failed not to meet her there, and entreated her, with very great earnestness, but without saying more, to discharge her servant, who was a good-for-nothing, dangerous creature. The upholsterer’s wife said she would do no such thing, unless the other told her why she thought the wench so good-for-nothing and dangerous. The neighbour, thus pressed, stated at last that she had seen her one morning in the garden with her husband. “ It was I, gossip dearie,” replied the good woman, laughing. “What!” cried the neighbour. “Stripped to your shift in the garden at four o’clock in the morning ! ” “Yes, gossip,” said the upholsterer’s wife. “ In good sooth, it was myself.” “They pelted each with snow,” continued the neighbour, “ and he played with her teaties and all that sort of thing as familiarly as you please.” “Yes, gossip, it was myself.” “ But, gossip,” rejoined the neighbour, “ I saw them do upon the snow a thing that seems to me neither decent nor proper.” “That may be, gossip dearie,” replied the upholsterer’s wife , “ but as I told you before and tell you again, it was myself and no one else that did all this ; for my good husband and I divert ourselves in that way together. Don’t be shocked, pray. You knew that we are bound to please our husbands.” The end of the matter was that the neighbour went home much more disposed to wish that she had such a husband than to pity her good friend. When the upholsterer came home, his wife repeated to him the whole conversation she had had with her neighbour. “ It is well for you, my dear,” he replied, “ that you are a good and sensible woman ; but for that we shou'd have been separated long ago. But I trust that by God’s grace I 27 6 7 he Heptamercn of the Queen of Navarre. we shall love each other in time to come as much as we have in the par.t, and that to His glory, and to our own comfort and satisfaction." “ Amen, my dear," said the good woman. “ I hope, too, that you will never find me fail to do my part towards maintaining the good understanding between us."* One must be very incredulous, ladies, if, after hearing so true a story, one were of opinion that there was as much wickedness in you as in men ; though, to say the truth, without wronging anyone, one cannot help coming to the conclusion with regard to the man and woman in question, that neither the one nor the other was good for anything. “ This man was prodigiously wicked," said Parlamente ; “ for on the one hand he deceived his wife, and on the other his servant." “ You cannot have rightly understood the story," said Hircan ; “for it states that he satisfied them both in one morning: a great feat, considering the contrariety of their interests." “ In that respect, he was doubly a knave,” replied Parlamente, “to satisfy the simplicity of the one by a lie, and the malice of the other by an act of vice. But I am quite aware that such as these will always be pardoned when they have such judges as you.” “I assure you, however," rejoined Hircan, “that I will never undertake anything so great or so difficult, for provided I satisfy you, my day will not have been ill employed.” “ If mutual love does not content the heart," returned Parlamente, “ all the rest cannot do so.” “That is true,” said Simontault. “I am persuaded there is no greater pain than to love and not to be loved." “ In order to be loved,” said Parlamente, “one should turn to * Dunlop thinks that this novel was probably taken from the fabliau of some Trouveur, who had obtained it from the East, as it corresponds with the story of the Shopkeeper’s Wife in Nakshebi’s Persian tales, known by the name of Tooti Nameh, or Tales of a Parrot. The Queen of Navarre’s version of the story has been imitated by Lafontaine, under the title of La Servante Justifi&j, He was particularly struck by an exceedingly comic reiteration of the phrase, “ It was I, gossip,” in the dialogue between the simple-witted wife and her neighbour, and says in his opening lines : “ Pour cetts fois, la Reine de Navarre D’un c’etoit moi naif autant que rare, Entretiendra dans ces vers le lectern." Novel 46.] Fifth Day. 277 those who love ; but very often those women who will not love are the most loved, and those men love most who are the least loved.” “ That reminds me,” said Oisille, “ of a tale which I had not intended to introduce among good ones.” “ Pray tell it us,” said Simontault. “ I will do so with pleasure,” replied Oisille. NOVEL XLVI. A sanctimonious Cordelier attempts to debauch the wife of a judge, ar.d actually ravishes a young lady, whose mother had foolishly authorised him to chastise her for lying too late in bed. N Angouleme, where Count Charles, father of King Francis, often resided, there was a Cordelier named De Vale, who was esteemed a learned man and a great preacher. One Advent he preached in the town before the count, and was so admired that those who knew him eagerly invited him to dinner. Among these was the Judge of Exempts of the county, who had married a handsome and virtuous wife, of whom the Cordelier was dying for love, though he had not the boldness to tell her so ; she, however, perceived it, and held him and his passion in disdain. One day he observed her going up to the garret all alone, and thinking to surprise her, he went up after her ; but on hearing his steps she turned round, and asked him whither he was going. “ I am coming after you,” he replied. “ I have a secret to tell you.” " Don’t come after me, good father,” said the judge’s wife, “ for I do not choose to talk with such as you in secret, and if you come another step higher you shall repent of it.” The friar, seeing her alone, took no heed of her words, and ran up • but she, being a woman of spirit, as soon as he was at the top gave him a kick in the belly, saying, “ Down, down, sir,” and sent him robing from the top to the bottom. The poor friar was so much ashamed of his discomfiture that he forgot his hurt, and ran out of the town as fast as he could, for he was sure she would not conceal the matter from her husband. No more she did, nor from the count and countess, so that the Cordelier durst not appear again in their presence. To complete his wickedness, he went away to the house of a lady who loved the Cordeliers above all other folk ; and after he had preached a sermon or two before her, he cast eyes upon her daughter, who was very handsome ; and because she did not 278 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. rise in the morning to go and hear his sermon, he often scolded her before her mother, who used to say, “ I wish to God, father, she had tasted a little of the discipline which you and your pious brethren administer to each other.” The good father vowed he would give her some of it if she continued to be so lazy, and the mother begged he would do so. A day or two after, the good father entered the lady’s room, and not seeing her daughter, asked where she was. “She fears you so little that she is still in bed,” replied the lady. “ Assuredly it is a very bad habit in young people to be so lazy,” replied the friar. “Few people make much account of the sin of laziness ; but for my part I esteem it one of the most dangerous of all, both for the body and the soul ; wherefore you should chastise her well for it ; or, if you will leave the business to me, I warrant I will cure her of lying in bed at an hour when she should be at her devotions.” The poor lady, believing that he was a good man, begged he would be pleased to correct her daughter, which he proceeded to do forthwith. Going up a little wooden staircase, he found the girl all alone in be