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

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

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I leave you to imagine the conversation that he and Florida had
together, and how she complained to him of the misfortunes that had come
to her in his absence. After shedding many tears of sorrow, both for
having been married against her will and also for having lost one she
loved so dearly without any hope of seeing him again, she resolved to
take consolation from the love and trust she had towards Amadour. Though
she durst not declare the truth, he suspected it, and lost neither time
nor opportunity to show her how much he loved her.

Just when Florida was all but persuaded to receive him, not as a lover,
but as a true and perfect friend, a misfortune came to pass, for the
King summoned Amadour to him concerning some important matter.

His wife was so grieved on hearing these tidings that she swooned, and
falling down a staircase on which she was standing, was so hurt that she
never rose again. Florida having by this death lost all her consolation,
mourned like one who felt herself bereft of friends and kin. But Amadour
grieved still more; for on the one part he lost one of the best wives
that ever lived, and on the other the means of ever seeing Florida
again. This caused him such sorrow that he was near coming by a sudden
death. The old Duchess of Cardona visited him incessantly, reciting the
arguments of philosophers why he should endure his loss with patience.
But all was of no avail; for if on the one hand his wife's death
afflicted him, on the other his love increased his martyrdom. Having no
longer any excuse to stay when his wife was buried, and his master again
summoned him, his despair was such that he was like to lose his reason.

Florida, who thinking to comfort him, was herself the cause of his
greatest grief, spent a whole afternoon in the most gracious converse
with him in order to lessen his sorrow, and assured him that she would
find means to see him oftener than he thought. Then, as he was to depart
on the following morning, and was so weak that he could scarcely stir
from his bed, he prayed her to come and see him in the evening after
every one else had left him. This she promised to do, not knowing that
love in extremity is void of reason.

Amadour altogether despaired of ever again seeing her whom he had loved
so long, and from whom he had received no other treatment than I have
described. Racked by secret passion and by despair at losing all means
of consorting with her, he resolved to play at double or quits, and
either lose her altogether or else wholly win her, and so pay himself in
an hour the reward which he thought he had deserved. Accordingly he had
his bed curtained in such a manner that those who came into the room
could not see him; and he complained so much more than he had done
previously that all the people of the house thought he had not
twenty-four hours to live.

After every one else had visited him, Florida, at the request of her
husband himself, came in the evening, hoping to comfort him by declaring
her affection and by telling him that, so far as honour allowed, she was
willing to love him. She sat down on a chair beside the head of his
bed, and began her consolation by weeping with him. Amadour, seeing her
filled with such sorrow, thought that in her distress he might the more
readily achieve his purpose, and raised himself up in the bed. Florida,
thinking that he was too weak to do this, sought to prevent him, but he
threw himself on his knees before her saying, "Must I lose sight of you
for ever?" Then he fell into her arms like one exhausted. The hapless
Florida embraced him and supported him for a long time, doing all she
could to comfort him. But what she offered him to cure his pain only
increased it; and while feigning to be half dead, he, without saying a
word, strove to obtain that which the honour of ladies forbids.

When Florida perceived his evil purpose, in which she could hardly
believe after all his honourable conversation, she asked him what he
sought to do. Amadour, fearing her reply, which he knew could not
be otherwise than chaste and virtuous, said nothing, but pursued his
attempt with all the strength that he could muster. Florida, greatly
astonished, suspected rather that he had lost his senses than that he
was really bent upon her dishonour, and called out to a gentleman whom
she knew to be in the room; whereupon Amadour in extreme despair flung
himself back upon his bed so suddenly that the gentleman thought him
dead.

Florida, who had risen from her chair, then said to the gentleman--

"Go quickly for some strong vinegar."

This the gentleman did, whereupon Florida said--

"What madness, Amadour, has mounted to your brain? What was it you
thought and wished to do?"

Amadour, who had lost all reason in the vehemence of his love, replied--

"Does so long a service merit so cruel a reward?"

"And what of the honour of which you have so often preached to me?" said
Florida.

"Ah! madam," said Amadour, "it would be impossible to hold your honour
more dear than I have held it. Before you were married, I was able so
to subdue my heart that you knew nothing of my desires, but now that you
are wedded and your honour may be shielded, do I wrong you in asking for
what is mine? By the strength of my love I have won you. He who first
possessed your heart had so little desire for your person that he
deserved to lose both. He who now owns your person is not worthy to have
your heart, and hence even your person does not properly belong to him.
But for five or six years I have for your sake borne many pains and
woes, which must show you that your body and heart belong to me alone.
Think not to defend yourself by speaking of conscience, for when love
constrains body and heart sin is never imputed. Those who are driven by
frenzy so far as to slay themselves cannot sin, for passion leaves no
room for reason; and if the passion of love be more intolerable than any
other, and more blinding to the senses, what sin could you fasten upon
one who yields to the conduct of such indomitable power? I am going
away, and have no hope of ever seeing you again; but if before my
departure I could have of you that assurance which the greatness of
my love deserves, I should be strengthened sufficiently to endure in
patience the sorrows of a long separation. If you will not grant me my
request you will ere long learn that your harshness has brought me to a
miserable and a cruel death." (18)

18 The passage commencing "Those who are driven" and ending
"a cruel death" is deficient in the earlier editions of the
_Heptameron_, which give the following in place of it: "Do
not doubt but what those who have felt the power of love
will cast the blame on you who have so robbed me of my
liberty and dazzled my senses with your divine graces, that
not knowing what to do henceforth, I am constrained to go
away without the hope of ever seeing you again; certain,
however, that wherever I may be, you will still have part of
my heart, which will ever remain yours, be I on land, on the
sea, or in the hands of my most cruel enemies." The above is
one of various instances of the liberty taken by Boaistuau
and Gruget with Margaret's text.--Ed.

Florida was not less grieved than astonished to hear these words from
one whom she had never imagined capable of such discourse, and, weeping,
she thus replied--

"Alas, Amadour, is this the honourable converse that we used to have
together while I was young? Is this the honour or conscience which many
a time you counselled me to value more than life? Have you forgotten
both the worthy examples you set before me of virtuous ladies who
withstood unholy love, and also your own contempt for erring women? I
cannot believe you so changed, Amadour, that regard for God, your own
conscience, and my honour is wholly dead within you. But if it indeed
be as you say, I praise the divine goodness which has prevented the
misfortune into which I was about to fall, and has revealed to me by
your own words the heart of which I was so ignorant. Having lost the
son of the Infante of Fortune, not only by my marriage, but also, as
is known to me, by reason of his love for another, and finding myself
wedded to a man whom, strive as I may, I cannot love, I resolved to set
heart and affection entirely on loving you. This love I built upon that
virtue which I had so often perceived in you, and to which by your own
assistance I think I have attained--I mean the virtue of loving one's
honour and conscience more than life. I came hither thinking to make
this rock of virtue a sure foundation of love. But you have in a
moment shown me, Amadour, that instead of a pure and cleanly rock, this
foundation would have been one of shifting sand or filthy mire; and
although a great part of the house in which I hoped always to dwell
had already been raised, you have suddenly demolished it. Lay aside,
therefore, any hope you had concerning me, and make up your mind not to
seek me by look or word wherever I may be, or to hope that I shall ever
be able or willing to change my resolve. It is with the deepest sorrow
that I tell you this, though had I gone so far as to swear eternal
love with you, I know that my heart could not have lived through this
meeting. Even now I am so confounded to find myself deceived, that I
am sure my life will be either short or sad. With these words I bid you
farewell, and for ever."

I will not try to describe to you the grief that Amadour felt on hearing
this speech. It is impossible not only to describe it, but even to
conceive it, except indeed to such as have experienced the like. Seeing
that with this cruel conclusion she was about to leave him, he seized
her by the arm, knowing full well that, if he did not remove her evil
opinion of him, he would lose her for ever. Accordingly he dissembled
his looks as well as he could, and said--

"During my whole life, madam, I have desired to love a woman of virtue,
and having found so few of them, I was minded to put you to proof, and
so discover whether you were as well worthy of esteem as of love. Now I
know for certain that you are; and therefore I give praise to God, who
has inclined my heart to the love of such great perfection. I entreat
you to pardon my mad and foolhardy attempt, seeing that the issue of it
has turned to your honour and to my great satisfaction."

Florida was beginning to learn through him the deceitfulness of men;
and, just as she had formerly found it difficult to believe in evil
where it existed, so did she now find it even more difficult to believe
in virtue where there was none.

"Would to God you spoke the truth," she said to him; "but I am not so
ignorant as not to know by my experience in marriage that the blindness
of strong passion led you to act as you did. Had God given me a loose
rein I am sure that you would not have drawn bridle. Those who go in
quest of virtue are wont to take a different road to yours. But enough;
if I have been too hasty in crediting you with some goodness, it is time
I learned the truth, by which I am now delivered out of your hands."

So saying, Florida left the room. As long as the night lasted she did
nought but weep; for the change that had taken place caused her intense
grief, and her heart had much ado to hold out against the sorrowing of
love. Although, guided by reason, she had resolved to love no more, yet
the heart, which cannot be subdued, would in no wise permit this. Thus
she was unable to love him less than before, and knowing that love had
been the cause of his offence, she made up her mind to satisfy love by
continuing to love him with her whole heart, and to obey honour by never
giving any sign of her affection either to him or to any one else.

In the morning Amadour departed in the distress that I have described.
Nevertheless his heart, which was so lofty that there was none like
it in the world, suffered him not to despair, but prompted him to
new devices for seeing Florida again and winning her favour. So as he
proceeded to the King of Spain, who was then at Toledo, he took his way
through the county of Aranda, where he arrived very late one evening,
and found the Countess in great sadness on account of the absence of her
daughter.

When she saw Amadour she kissed and embraced him as though he had been
her own son, and this no less for the love she herself bore him as for
that which she suspected he had for Florida. She asked minutely for news
of her daughter, and he told her what he could, though not the entire
truth. However, he confessed the love which existed between them, and
which Florida had always concealed; and he begged the Countess to aid
him in hearing often of Florida, and to take her as speedily as possible
to Aranda.

At daybreak he went on his way, and when he had despatched his business
with the King he left for the war. So sad was he and so changed in
every way that ladies, captains, and acquaintances alike could scarcely
recognise him.

He now wore nothing but black, and this of a heavier pile than was
needful as mourning for his dead wife; but indeed her death served only
as a cloak for the sorrow that was in his heart. Thus Amadour spent
three or four years without returning to Court.

The Countess of Aranda hearing that Florida was changed and that it was
pitiful to see her, sent for her, hoping that she would return home. The
contrary, however, happened. When Florida learned that Amadour had
told her mother of their love, and that she, although so discreet and
virtuous, had approved of it, she was in extraordinary perplexity. On
the one hand she perceived that if her mother, who had such great esteem
for Amadour, were told the truth some mischief might befall the latter;
and this even to save her life she would not have brought to pass, for
she felt strong enough to punish his folly herself without calling on
her kinsfolk for assistance. On the other hand she saw that, if she
concealed the evil she knew of him, she would be constrained by her
mother and all her friends to speak to him and show him favour, and this
she feared would only strengthen his evil purpose. However, as he was
a long way off, she kept her own counsel, and wrote to him whenever the
Countess commanded her. Still her letters were such that he could see
they were written more out of obedience than goodwill; and the grief
he felt in reading them was as great as his joy had been in reading the
earlier ones.

At the end of two or three years, when he had performed so many noble
deeds that all the paper in Spain could not contain the records of them,
(19) he conceived a very skilful device, not indeed to win Florida's
heart, which he looked upon as lost, but to gain the victory over his
enemy, since such she had shown herself to be. He put aside all the
promptings of reason and even the fear of death, and at the risk of
his life resolved to act in the following way. He persuaded the chief
Governor (20) to send him on an embassy to the King concerning some
secret attempt against Leucate; (21) and he procured a command to
take counsel with the Countess of Aranda about the matter before
communicating it to the King.

19 Margaret, perhaps, wrote "All the paper of Spain could
not contain them," simply because Spanish paper was then of
very small size. Paper-making had, however, been almost
monopolised by Spain until the end of the thirteenth
century, the cotton used in the manufacture being imported
from the East.--M.

20 The Viceroy of Catalonia.--D.

21 Leucate, now a village, but said to have been a
flourishing town in the fourteenth century, lies near the
Mediterranean, at a few miles from Salces, and gives its
name to a large salt-water lake. Formerly fortified, it was
repeatedly besieged and burnt by the Spaniards; notably by
the Duke of Alba in 1503, after he had relieved Salces.--Ed.

Then he came post haste to the county of Aranda, where he knew Florida
to be, and secretly sent a friend to inform the Countess of his coming,
praying her to keep it secret, and to grant him audience at nightfall
without the knowledge of any one.

The Countess, who was very pleased at his coming, spoke of it to
Florida, and sent her to undress in her husband's room, that she might
be ready when sent for after every one was gone to bed. Florida had not
yet recovered from her first alarm, but she said nothing of it to her
mother, and withdrew to an oratory in order to commend herself to Our
Lord. While she was praying that her heart might be preserved from
all evil affection, she remembered that Amadour had often praised her
beauty, and that in spite of long illness it had not been impaired.
Being, therefore, more willing to injure her beauty than suffer it to
kindle an evil flame in the heart of an honourable gentleman, she took a
stone which lay in the chapel and struck herself a grievous blow on the
face so that her mouth, nose, and eyes were quite disfigured. Then,
in order that no one might suspect it to be of her own doing, she let
herself fall upon her face on leaving the chapel when summoned by the
Countess, and cried out loudly. The Countess coming thither found her
in this pitiful state, and forthwith caused her face to be dressed and
bandaged.

Then the Countess led her to her own apartment, and begged her to go
to her room and entertain Amadour until she herself had got rid of her
company. This Florida did, thinking that there were others with him.

But when she found herself alone with him, and the door closed upon her,
she was as greatly troubled as he was pleased. He thought that, by love
or violence, he would now have what he desired; so he spoke to her, and
finding that she made the same reply as before, and that even to save
her life she would not change her resolve, he was beside himself with
despair.

"Before God, Florida," he said to her, "your scruples shall not rob me
of the fruits of my labour. Since love, patience, and humble entreaty
are of no avail, I will spare no strength of mine to gain the boon, upon
which all its existence depends."

Florida saw that his eyes and countenance were altered exceedingly, so
that his complexion, naturally the fairest in the world, was now as red
as fire, and his look, usually so gentle and pleasant, had become as
horrible and furious as though fierce flames were blazing in his heart
and face. In his frenzy he seized her delicate, weak hands in his own
strong, powerful ones; and she, finding herself in such bondage that she
could neither defend herself nor fly, thought that her only chance was
to try whether he had not retained some traces of his former love, for
the sake of which he might forego his cruelty. She therefore said to
him--

"If you now look upon me, Amadour, in the light of an enemy, I entreat
you, by that pure love which I once thought was in your heart, to
hearken to me before you put me to torture."

Seeing that he became attentive, she continued--

"Alas! Amadour, what can prompt you to seek after a thing that can
afford you no satisfaction, and thus afflict me with the profoundest
grief? You made trial of my inclinations in the days of my youth and
earliest beauty, and they perhaps served to excuse your passion; but I
am amazed that now, when I am old, and ugly, and sorrow-stricken, you
should seek for what you know you can never find. I am sure you do not
doubt that my mind is as it used to be, and so by force alone can you
obtain what you desire. If you observe the condition of my face, and lay
aside the memory of the beauty that once you saw in it, you will have no
inclination to draw any nearer; and if you still retain within you any
remnants of your past love, it is impossible that pity will not subdue
your frenzy. To this pity, which I have often found in you, I appeal
with prayers for mercy. Suffer me to live in peace, and in that honour
which by your own counsel I have resolved to preserve. But if the love
you once bore me is now turned to hate, and you desire, in vengeance
rather than in love, to make me the unhappiest woman alive, I protest to
you that it shall not be so. You will force me against my will to make
your evil purpose known to her who thinks so highly of you; and you may
be sure that, when she learns it, your life will not be safe."

But Amadour interrupted her.

"If I must die," he said, "I shall be the sooner rid of my torment.
The disfigurement of your face, which I believe is of your own seeking,
shall not restrain me from making you mine. Though I could have nothing
but your bones, I would yet hold them close to me."

When Florida saw that prayers, reasoning, and tears were alike of no
avail, and that while he cruelly pursued his evil purpose she lacked
the strength to resist him, she summoned the aid which she dreaded as
greatly as death, and in a sad and piteous voice called as loudly as she
could upon her mother. The Countess, hearing her daughter's cries,
had grave misgivings of the truth, and hastened into the room with all
possible speed.

Amadour, who was not so ready to die as he affirmed, desisted promptly
from his enterprise; and when the lady opened the door she found him
close beside it, and Florida some distance from him. "Amadour," said the
Countess, "what is the matter? Tell me the truth."

Amadour, who was never at a loss for invention, replied with a pale and
daunted face--

"Alas! madam, what change is this in the lady Florida? I was never so
astonished before, for, as I have told you, I thought I had a share in
her favour; but I now see clearly that I have lost it all. While she was
being brought up by you, she was, I think, no less discreet or virtuous
than she is at present; however, she had then no qualms of conscience
about speaking with any one. But now, when I sought to look at her, she
would not suffer me to do so. When I saw this behaviour on her part I
thought I must be dreaming, and asked her for her hand to kiss it after
the manner of the country. This she utterly refused me. I acknowledge,
madam, that then I acted wrongfully, and I entreat your pardon for it;
for I took her hand, as it were by force, and kissed it. I asked nothing
more of her, but I believe that she intends my death, for she called out
to you as you know. Why she did this I cannot tell, unless indeed she
feared that I had some other purpose in view. Nevertheless, madam, be
this as it may, I confess that I am in the wrong; for although she ought
to love all who are devoted to you, fortune wills it that I, who am of
all most attached to her, am banished from her good graces. Still, I
shall ever continue the same both to you and to her; and I entreat you
to continue me in your good favour since, by no fault of my own, I have
now lost hers."

The Countess, who partly believed and partly suspected him, went up to
her daughter and asked--"Why did you call me so loudly?"

Florida replied that she had felt afraid; and, although the Countess
questioned her minutely on many points, she would give no other reply.
Finding that she had escaped from her enemy she deemed him sufficiently
punished by the failure of his attempt.

After the Countess had had a long conversation with Amadour, she
suffered him to speak again in her presence with Florida, to see how
he would behave. He said but little, save that he thanked her for not
having confessed the truth to her mother, and begged that since she had
expelled him from her heart, she would at least allow no other to take
his place.

"If my voice had not been my only means of defending myself," she
replied, "it would never have been heard; and from me you shall have no
worse punishment, if you do not force me to it by troubling me again as
you have done. Do not fear that I can ever love another; since I have
not found the good I wished for in a heart that I considered to be the
most virtuous in the world, I do not expect to find it in any man. This
evil fortune will henceforth free me of all the passion that love can
give."

With these words she bade him farewell.

Her mother, who had been watching her face, was unable to form any
opinion; though from that time forth she clearly saw that her daughter
had lost all affection for Amadour. She imagined her so devoid of reason
as to hate everything that she herself loved; and from that hour she
warred with her in a strange way, spending seven years without speaking
to her except in anger, all which she did at Amadour's request.

Meanwhile, on account of her mother's harsh treatment, Florida's former
dread of being with her husband was changed into a desire of never
leaving him. Seeing, however, that all her efforts were useless, she
resolved to deceive Amadour, and laying aside her coldness for a day
or two, she advised him to pay court to a lady who, she said, had been
speaking of their love.

This lady lived with the Queen of Spain, and was called Loretta. Amadour
believed the story, and, thinking that he might in this way regain
Florida's good graces, he made love to Loretta, who was the wife of a
captain, one of the viceroys of the King of Spain. She, in her pleasure
at having gained such a lover, showed so much elation that the affair
was rumoured abroad. Even the Countess of Aranda, who was at Court, had
knowledge of it, and thenceforward treated Florida less harshly than
before.

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