Margaret, Queen Of Navarre - The Tales Of The Heptameron, Vol. II. (of V.)

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THE TALES OF

THE HEPTAMERON

OF

Margaret, Queen of Navarre

_Newly Translated into English from the Authentic Text_

OF M. LE ROUX DE LINCY WITH

AN ESSAY UPON THE HEPTAMERON

BY

GEORGE SAINTSBURY, M.A.

Also the Original Seventy-three Full Page Engravings

Designed by S. FREUDENBERG

And One Hundred and Fifty Head and Tail Pieces

By DUNKER

_IN FIVE VOLUMES_

VOLUME THE SECOND

LONDON: PRINTED FOR THE SOCIETY OF ENGLISH BIBLIOPHILISTS

MDCCCXCIV

[Illustration: Frontispiece]

[Margaret, Queen of Navarre, from a crayon drawing by Clouet, preserved
at the Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris]

[Illustration: Titlepage]

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.

FIRST DAY--Continued.

Tale VIII. The misadventure of Bornet, who, planning with a friend of
his that both should lie with a serving-woman, discovers too late that
they have had to do with his own wife.

Tale IX. The evil fortune of a gentleman of Dauphine, who dies of
despair because he cannot marry a damsel nobler and richer than himself.

Tale X. The Spanish story of Florida, who, after withstanding the love
of a gentleman named Amadour for many years, eventually becomes a nun.

_SECOND DAY_.

Prologue

Tale XI. (A). Mishap of the Lady de Roncex in the Grey Friars' Convent
at Thouars.

Tale XI. (B). Facetious discourse of a Friar of Touraine.

Tale XII. Story of Alexander de' Medici, Duke of Florence, whom his
cousin, Lorenzino de' Medici, slew in order to save his sister's honour.

Tale XIII. Praiseworthy artifice of a lady to whom a sea Captain sent
a letter and diamond ring, and who, by forwarding them to the Captain's
wife as though they had been intended for her, united husband and wife
once more in all affection.

Tale XIV. The Lord of Bonnivet, after furthering the love entertained
by an Italian gentleman for a lady of Milan, finds means to take
the other's place and so supplant him with the lady who had formerly
rejected himself.

Tale XV. The troubles and evil fortune of a virtuous lady who, after
being long neglected by her husband, becomes the object of his jealousy.

Tale XVI. Story of a Milanese Countess, who, after long rejecting the
love of a French gentleman, rewards him at last for his faithfulness,
but not until she has put his courage to the proof.

Tale XVII. The noble manner in which King Francis the First shows Count
William of Furstemberg that he knows of the plans laid by him against
his life, and so compels him to do justice upon himself and to leave
France.

XVIII. A young gentleman scholar at last wins a lady's love, after
enduring successfully two trials that she had made of him.

Appendix to Vol. II

PAGE ENGRAVINGS CONTAINED IN VOLUME II.

Tale VIII. Bornet's Concern on discovering that his Wife is without her
Ring.

Tale IX. The Dying Gentleman receiving the Embraces of his Sweetheart.

Tale X. The Countess asking an Explanation from Amadour.

Tale XI. (B). The Grey Friar telling his Tales.

Tale XII. The Gentleman killing the Duke.

Tale XIII. The Sea-captain talking to the Lady.

Tale XIV. Bonnivet and the Lady of Milan.

Tale XV. The Lady taking Oath as to her Conduct.

Tale XVI. The Gentleman discovering the Trick.

Tale XVII. The King showing his Sword.

Tale XVIII. The Student escaping the Temptation.

[Illustration: 001a.jpg Bornet's Concern on discovering that his Wife is
without her Ring]

[Bornet's Concern on discovering that his Wife is without her Ring]

[Illustration: 001.jpg Page Image]

_TALE VIII_.

_A certain Bornet, less loyal to his wife than she to him,
desired to lie with his maidservant, and made his enterprise
known to a friend, who, hoping to share in the spoil, so
aided and abetted him, that whilst the husband thought to
lie with his servant he in truth lay with his wife. Unknown
to the latter, he then caused his friend to participate in
the pleasure which rightly belonged to himself alone, and
thus made himself a cuckold without there being any guilt on
the part of his wife._ (1)

In the county of Alletz (2) there lived a man named Bornet, who being
married to an upright and virtuous wife, had great regard for her honour
and reputation, as I believe is the case with all the husbands here
present in respect to their own wives. But although he desired that she
should be true to him, he was not willing that the same law should apply
to both, for he fell in love with his maid-servant, from whom he had
nothing to gain save the pleasure afforded by a diversity of viands.

1 For a list of tales similar to this one, see _post_,
Appendix A.

2 Alletz, now Alais, a town of Lower Languedoc (department
of the Gard), lies on the Gardon, at the foot of the
Cevennes mountains. It was formerly a county, the title
having been held by Charles, Duke of Angouleme, natural son
of Charles IX.--M.

Now he had a neighbour of the same condition as his own, named Sandras,
a tabourer (3) and tailor by trade, and there was such friendship
between them that, excepting Bornet's wife, they had all things in
common. It thus happened that Bornet told his friend of the enterprise
he had in hand against the maid-servant; and Sandras not only
approved of it, but gave all the assistance he could to further its
accomplishment, hoping that he himself might share in the spoil.

3 Tabourers are still to be found in some towns of Lower
Languedoc and in most of those of Provence, where they
perambulate the streets playing their instruments. They are
in great request at all the country weddings and other
festive gatherings, as their instruments supply the
necessary accompaniment to the ancient Provencal dance, the
_farandole_.--Ed.

The maid-servant, however, was loth to consent, and finding herself hard
pressed, she went to her mistress, told her of the matter, and begged
leave to go home to her kinsfolk, since she could no longer endure to
live in such torment. Her mistress, who had great love for her husband
and had often suspected him, was well pleased to have him thus at a
disadvantage, and to be able to show that she had doubted him justly.
Accordingly, she said to the servant--

"Remain, my girl, but lead my husband on by degrees, and at last make an
appointment to lie with him in my closet. Do not fail to tell me on what
night he is to come, and see that no one knows anything about it."

The maid-servant did all that her mistress had commanded her, and her
master in great content went to tell the good news to his friend. The
latter then begged that, since he had been concerned in the business,
he might have part in the result. This was promised him, and, when the
appointed hour was come, the master went to lie, as he thought, with the
maid-servant; but his wife, yielding up the authority of commanding for
the pleasure of obeying, had put herself in the servant's place, and she
received him, not in the manner of a wife, but after the fashion of
a frightened maid. This she did so well that her husband suspected
nothing.

I cannot tell you which of the two was the better pleased, he at the
thought that he was deceiving his wife, or she at really deceiving her
husband. When he had remained with her, not as long as he wished, but
according to his powers, which were those of a man who had long been
married, he went out of doors, found his friend, who was much younger
and lustier than himself, and told him gleefully that he had never met
with better fortune. "You know what you promised me," said his friend to
him.

"Go quickly then," replied the husband, "for she may get up, or my wife
have need of her."

The friend went off and found the supposed maid-servant, who, thinking
her husband had returned, denied him nothing that he asked of her, or
rather took, for he durst not speak. He remained with her much longer
than her husband had done, whereat she was greatly astonished, for she
had not been wont to pass such nights. Nevertheless, she endured it all
with patience, comforting herself with the thought of what she would say
to him on the morrow, and of the ridicule that she would cast upon him.

Towards daybreak the man rose from beside her, and toying with her as he
was going away, snatched from her finger the ring with which her husband
had espoused her, and which the women of that part of the country guard
with great superstition. She who keeps it till her death is held in high
honour, while she who chances to lose it, is thought lightly of as a
person who has given her faith to some other than her husband.

The wife, however, was very glad to have it taken, thinking it would
be a sure proof of how she had deceived her husband. When the friend
returned, the husband asked him how he had fared. He replied that he was
of the same opinion as himself, and that he would have remained longer
had he not feared to be surprised by daybreak. Then they both went to
the friend's house to take as long a rest as they could. In the morning,
while they were dressing, the husband perceived the ring that his friend
had on his finger, and saw that it was exactly like the one he had given
to his wife at their marriage. He thereupon asked his friend from whom
he had received the ring, and when he heard he had snatched it from the
servant's finger, he was confounded and began to strike his head against
the wall, saying--"Ah! good Lord! have I made myself a cuckold without
my wife knowing anything about it?"

"Perhaps," said his friend in order to comfort him, "your wife gives her
ring into the maid's keeping at night-time."

The husband made no reply, but took himself home, where he found his
wife fairer, more gaily dressed, and merrier than usual, like one who
rejoiced at having saved her maid's conscience, and tested her husband
to the full, at no greater cost than a night's sleep. Seeing her so
cheerful, the husband said to himself--

"If she knew of my adventure she would not show me such a pleasant
countenance."

Then, whilst speaking to her of various matters, he took her by the
hand, and on noticing that she no longer wore the ring, which she had
never been accustomed to remove from her finger, he was quite overcome.

"What have you done with your ring?" he asked her in a trembling voice.

She, well pleased that he gave her an opportunity to say what she
desired, replied--

"O wickedest of men! From whom do you imagine you took it? You thought
it was from my maid-servant, for love of whom you expended more than
twice as much of your substance as you ever did for me. The first time
you came to bed I thought you as much in love as it was possible to be;
but after you had gone out and were come back again, you seemed to be
a very devil. Wretch! think how blind you must have been to bestow such
praises on my person and lustiness, which you have long enjoyed
without holding them in any great esteem. 'Twas, therefore, not the
maid-servant's beauty that made the pleasure so delightful to you, but
the grievous sin of lust which so consumes your heart and so clouds
your reason that in the frenzy of your love for the servant you would,
I believe, have taken a she-goat in a nightcap for a comely girl! Now,
husband, it is time to amend your life, and, knowing me to be your wife,
and an honest woman, to be as content with me as you were when you took
me for a pitiful strumpet. What I did was to turn you from your evil
ways, so that in your old age we might live together in true love and
repose of conscience. If you purpose to continue your past life, I had
rather be severed from you than daily see before my eyes the ruin of
your soul, body, and estate. But if you will acknowledge the evil of
your ways, and resolve to live in fear of God and obedience to His
commandments, I will forget all your past sins, as I trust God will
forget my ingratitude in not loving Him as I ought to do."

If ever man was reduced to despair it was this unhappy husband. Not only
had he abandoned this sensible, fair, and chaste wife for a woman who
did not love him, but, worse than this, he had without her knowledge
made her a strumpet by causing another man to participate in the leasure
which should have been for himself alone; and thus he had made himself
horns of everlasting derision. However, seeing his wife in such wrath
by reason of the love he had borne his maid-servant, he took care not
to tell her of the evil trick that he had played her; and entreating her
forgiveness, with promises of full amendment of his former evil life,
he gave her back the ring which he had recovered from his friend. He
entreated the latter not to reveal his shame; but, as what is whispered
in the ear is always proclaimed from the housetop, the truth, after
a time, became known, and men called him cuckold without imputing any
shame to his wife.

"It seems to me, ladies, that if all those who have committed like
offences against their wives were to be punished in the same way, Hircan
and Saffredent would have great cause for fear."

"Why, Longarine," said Saffredent, "are none in the company married save
Hircan and I?"

"Yes, indeed there are others," she replied, "but none who would play a
similar trick."

"Whence did you learn," asked Saffredent, "that we ever solicited our
wives' maid-servants?"

"If the ladies who are in question," said Longarine, "were willing to
speak the truth, we should certainly hear of maid-servants dismissed
without notice."

"Truly," said Geburon, "you are a most worthy lady! You promised to make
the company laugh, and yet are angering these two poor gentlemen."

"Tis all one," said Longarine: "so long as they do not draw their
swords, their anger will only serve to increase our laughter."

"A pretty business indeed!" said Hircan. "Why, if our wives chose to
believe this lady, she would embroil the seemliest household in the
company."

"I am well aware before whom I speak," said Longarine. "Your wives are
so sensible and bear you so much love, that if you were to give them
horns as big as those of a deer, they would nevertheless try to persuade
themselves and every one else that they were chaplets of roses."

At this the company, and even those concerned, laughed so heartily that
their talk came to an end. However, Dagoucin, who had not yet uttered a
word, could not help saying--

"Men are very unreasonable when, having enough to content themselves
with at home, they go in search of something else. I have often seen
people who, not content with sufficiency, have aimed at bettering
themselves, and have fallen into a worse position than they were in
before. Such persons receive no pity, for fickleness is always blamed."

"But what say you to those who have not found their other half?" asked
Simontault. "Do you call it fickleness to seek it wherever it may be
found?"

"Since it is impossible," said Dagoucin, "for a man to know the
whereabouts of that other half with whom there would be such perfect
union that one would not differ from the other, he should remain
steadfast wherever love has attached him. And whatsoever may happen, he
should change neither in heart nor in desire. If she whom you love be
the image of yourself, and there be but one will between you, it is
yourself you love, and not her."

"Dagoucin," said Hircan, "you are falling into error. You speak as
though we should love women without being loved in return."

"Hircan," replied Dagoucin, "I hold that if our love be based on the
beauty, grace, love, and favour of a woman, and our purpose be pleasure,
honour, or profit, such love cannot long endure; for when the foundation
on which it rests is gone, the love itself departs from us. But I am
firmly of opinion that he who loves with no other end or desire than to
love well, will sooner yield up his soul in death than suffer his great
love to leave his heart."

"In faith," said Simontault, "I do not believe that you have ever been
in love. If you had felt the flame like other men, you would not now be
picturing to us Plato's _Republic_, which may be described in writing
but not be put into practice."

"Nay, I have been in love," said Dagoucin, "and am so still, and
shall continue so as long as I live. But I am in such fear lest the
manifestation of this love should impair its perfection, that I shrink
from declaring it even to her from whom I would fain have the like
affection. I dare not even think of it lest my eyes should reveal
it, for the more I keep my flame secret and hidden, the more does my
pleasure increase at knowing that my love is perfect."

"For all that," said Geburon, "I believe that you would willingly have
love in return."

"I do not deny it," said Dagoucin, "but even were I beloved as much as I
love, my love would not be increased any more than it could be lessened,
were it not returned with equal warmth."

Upon this Parlamente, who suspected this fantasy of Dagoucin's, said--

"Take care, Dagoucin; I have known others besides you who preferred to
die rather than speak."

"Such persons, madam;" said Dagoucin, "I deem very happy."

"Doubtless," said Saffredent, "and worthy of a place among the innocents
of whom the Church sings:

'_Non loquendo sed moriendo confessi sunt_.' (4)

4 From the ritual for the Feast of the Holy Innocents.--M.

I have heard much of such timid lovers, but I have never yet seen one
die. And since I myself have escaped death after all the troubles I have
borne, I do not think that any one can die of love."

"Ah, Saffredent!" said Dagoucin, "how do you expect to be loved since
those who are of your opinion never die? Yet have I known a goodly
number who have died of no other ailment than perfect love."

"Since you know such stories," said Longarine, "I give you my vote to
tell us a pleasant one, which shall be the ninth of to-day."

"To the end," said Dagoucin, "that signs and miracles may lead you to
put faith in what I have said, I will relate to you something which
happened less than three years ago."

[Illustration: 012.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 013a.jpg The Dying Gentleman receiving the Embraces of
his Sweetheart]

[The Dying Gentleman receiving the Embraces of his Sweetheart]

[Illustration: 013.jpg Page Image]

_TALE IX_.

_The perfect love borne by a gentleman to a damsel, being too deeply
concealed and disregarded, brought about his death, to the great regret
of his sweetheart_.

Between Dauphine and Provence there lived a gentleman who was far richer
in virtue, comeliness, and honour than in other possessions, and who was
greatly in love with a certain damsel. I will not mention her name,
out of consideration for her kinsfolk, who are of good and illustrious
descent; but you may rest assured that my story is a true one. As he was
not of such noble birth as herself, he durst not reveal his affection,
for the love he bore her was so great and perfect that he would rather
have died than have desired aught to her dishonour. Seeing that he was
so greatly beneath her, he had no hope of marrying her; in his love,
therefore, his only purpose was to love her with all his strength and
as perfectly as he was able. This he did for so long a time that at last
she had some knowledge of it; and, seeing that the love he bore her
was so full of virtue and of good intent, she felt honoured by it, and
showed him in turn so much favour that he, who sought nothing better
than this, was well contented.

But malice, which is the enemy of all peace, could not suffer this
honourable and happy life to last, and certain persons spoke to the
maiden's mother of their amazement at this gentleman being thought so
much of in her house. They said that they suspected him of coming there
more on account of her daughter than of aught else, adding that he
had often been seen in converse with her. The mother, who doubted the
gentleman's honour as little as that of any of her own children, was
much distressed on hearing that his presence was taken in bad part, and,
dreading lest malicious tongues should cause a scandal, she entreated
that he would not for some time frequent her house as he had been wont
to do. He found this hard to bear, for he knew that his honourable
conversation with her daughter did not deserve such estrangement.
Nevertheless, in order to silence evil gossip, he withdrew until the
rumours had ceased; then he returned as before, his absence having in no
wise lessened his love.

One day, however, whilst he was in the house, he heard some talk of
marrying the damsel to a gentleman who did not seem to him to be so very
rich that he should be entitled to take his mistress from him. So he
began to pluck up courage, and engaged his friends to speak for him,
believing that, if the choice were left to the damsel, she would prefer
him to his rival. Nevertheless, the mother and kinsfolk chose the
other suitor, because he was much richer; whereupon the poor gentleman,
knowing his sweetheart to be as little pleased as himself, gave way to
such sorrow, that by degrees, and without any other distemper, he became
greatly changed, seeming as though he had covered the comeliness of his
face with the mask of that death, to which hour by hour he was joyously
hastening.

Meanwhile, he could not refrain from going as often as was possible to
converse with her whom he so greatly loved. But at last, when strength
failed him, he was constrained to keep his bed; yet he would not have
his sweetheart know of this, lest he should cast part of his grief on
her. And giving himself up to despair and sadness, he was no longer able
to eat, drink, sleep, or rest, so that it became impossible to recognise
him by reason of his leanness and strangely altered features.

Some one brought the news of this to his sweetheart's mother, who was
a lady full of charity, and who had, moreover, such a liking for the
gentleman, that if all the kinsfolk had been of the same opinion as
herself and her daughter, his merits would have been preferred to the
possessions of the other. But the kinsfolk on the father's side would
not hear of it. However, the lady went with her daughter to see the
unhappy gentleman, and found him more dead than alive. Perceiving that
the end of his life was at hand, he had that morning confessed and
received the Holy Sacrament, thinking to die without seeing anybody
more. But although he was at death's door, when he saw her who for him
was the resurrection and the life come in, he felt so strengthened that
he started up in bed.

"What motive," said he to the lady, "has inclined you to come and see
one who already has a foot in the grave, and of whose death you are
yourself the cause?"

"How is it possible," said the lady, "that the death of one whom we
like so well can be brought about by our fault? Tell me, I pray, why you
speak in this manner?"

"Madam," he replied, "I concealed my love for your daughter as long as I
was able; and my kinsfolk, in speaking of a marriage between myself
and her, made known more than I desired, since I have thereby had the
misfortune to lose all hope; not, indeed, in regard to my own pleasure,
but because I know that she will never have such fair treatment and so
much love from any other as she would have had from me. Her loss of
the best and most loving friend she has in the world causes me more
affliction than the loss of my own life, which I desired to preserve for
her sake only. But since it cannot in any wise be of service to her, the
loss of it is to me great gain."

Hearing these words, the lady and her daughter sought to comfort him.

"Take courage, my friend," said the mother. "I pledge you my word that,
if God gives you back your health, my daughter shall have no other
husband but you. See, she is here present, and I charge her to promise
you the same."

The daughter, weeping, strove to assure him of what her mother promised.
He well knew, however, that even if his health were restored he would
still lose his sweetheart, and that these fair words were only uttered
in order somewhat to revive him. Accordingly, he told them that had they
spoken to him thus three months before, he would have been the lustiest
and happiest gentleman in France; but that their aid came so late, it
could bring him neither belief nor hope. Then, seeing that they strove
to make him believe them, he said--

"Well, since, on account of my feeble state, you promise me a blessing
which, even though you would yourselves have it so, can never be mine, I
will entreat of you a much smaller one, for which, however, I was never
yet bold enough to ask."

They immediately vowed that they would grant it, and bade him ask
boldly.

"I entreat you," he said, "to place in my arms her whom you promise me
for my wife, and to bid her embrace and kiss me."

The daughter, who was unaccustomed to such familiarity, sought to make
some difficulty, but her mother straightly commanded her, seeing that
the gentleman no longer had the feelings or vigour of a living man.
Being thus commanded, the girl went up to the poor sufferer's bedside,
saying--

"I pray you, sweetheart, be of good cheer."

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