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

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

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Then, just as the frenzy of lust had robbed him of sleep, so now the
fear that always follows upon wickedness would not suffer him to rest.
Accordingly, he went to the porter of the house and said to him--

"Friend, your master has charged me to go without delay and offer up
prayers for him at our convent, where he is accustomed to perform his
devotions. Wherefore, I pray you, give me my horse and open the door
without letting any one be the wiser; for the mission is both pressing
and secret."

The porter knew that obedience to the Friar was service acceptable to
his master, and so he opened the door secretly and let him out.

Just at that time the gentleman awoke. Finding that it was close on the
hour which the good father had appointed him for visiting his wife, he
got up in his bedgown and repaired swiftly to that bed whither by God's
ordinance, and without need of the license of man, it was lawful for him
to go.

When his wife heard him speaking beside her, she was greatly astonished,
and, not knowing what had occurred, said to him--

"Nay, sir, is it possible that, after your promise to the good father to
be heedful of your own health and of mine, you not only come before the
hour appointed, but even return a second time? Think on it, sir, I pray
you."

On hearing this, the gentleman was so much disconcerted that he could
not conceal it, and said to her--

"What do these words mean? I know of a truth that I have not lain with
you for three weeks, and yet you rebuke me for coming too often. If you
continue to talk in this way, you will make me think that my company is
irksome to you, and will drive me, contrary to my wont and will, to seek
elsewhere that pleasure which, by the law of God, I should have with
you."

The lady thought that he was jesting, and replied--

"I pray you, sir, deceive not yourself in seeking to deceive me; for
although you said nothing when you came, I knew very well that you were
here."

Then the gentleman saw that they had both been deceived, and solemnly
vowed to her that he had not been with her before; whereat the lady,
weeping in dire distress, besought him to find out with all despatch
who it could have been, seeing that besides themselves only his
brother-in-law and the Friar slept in the house.

Impelled by suspicion of the Friar, the gentleman forthwith went in
all haste to the room where he had been lodged, and found it empty;
whereupon, to make yet more certain whether he had fled, he sent for the
man who kept the door, and asked him whether he knew what had become of
the Friar. And the man told him the whole truth.

The gentleman, being now convinced of the Friar's wickedness, returned
to his wife's room, and said to her--

"Of a certainty, sweetheart, the man who lay with you and did such fine
things was our Father Confessor."

The lady, who all her life long had held her honour dear, was
overwhelmed with despair, and laying aside all humanity and womanly
nature, besought her husband on her knees to avenge this foul wrong;
whereupon the gentleman immediately mounted his horse and went in
pursuit of the Friar.

The lady remained all alone in her bed, with no counsel or comfort near
her but her little newborn child. She reflected upon the strange and
horrible adventure that had befallen her, and, without making any excuse
for her ignorance, deemed herself guilty as well as the unhappiest woman
in the world. She had never learned aught of the Friars, save to have
confidence in good works, and seek atonement for sins by austerity of
life, fasting and discipline; she was wholly ignorant of the pardon
granted by our good God through the merits of His Son, the remission of
sins by His blood, the reconciliation of the Father with us through His
death, and the life given to sinners by His sole goodness and mercy; and
so, assailed by despair based on the enormity and magnitude of her sin,
the love of her husband and the honour of her house, she thought that
death would be far happier than such a life as hers. And, overcome by
sorrow, she fell into such despair that she was not only turned aside
from the hope which every Christian should have in God, but she forgot
her own nature, and was wholly bereft of common sense.

Then, overpowered by grief, and driven by despair from all knowledge of
God and herself, this frenzied, frantic woman took a cord from the bed
and strangled herself with her own hands.

And worse even than this, amidst the agony of this cruel death, whilst
her body was struggling against it, she set her foot upon the face
of her little child, whose innocence did not avail to save it from
following in death its sorrowful and suffering mother. While dying,
however, the infant uttered so piercing a cry that a woman who slept
in the room rose in great haste and lit the candle. Then, seeing her
mistress hanging strangled by the bed-cord, and the child stifled and
dead under her feet, she ran in great affright to the apartment of her
mistress's brother, and brought him to see the pitiful sight.

The brother, after giving way to such grief as was natural and fitting
in one who loved his sister with his whole heart, asked the serving-woman
who it was that had committed this terrible crime.

She replied that she did not know; but that no one had entered the room
excepting her master, and he had but lately left it. The brother then
went to the gentleman's room, and not finding him there, felt sure that
he had done the deed. So, mounting his horse without further inquiry,
he hastened in pursuit and met with him on the road as he was returning
disconsolate at not having been able to overtake the Grey Friar.

As soon as the lady's brother saw his brother-in-law, he cried out to
him--

"Villain and coward, defend yourself, for I trust that God will by this
sword avenge me on you this day."

The gentleman would have expostulated, but his brother-in-law's sword
was pressing so close upon him that he found it of more importance to
defend himself than to inquire the reason of the quarrel; whereupon
each dealt the other so many wounds that they were at last compelled by
weariness and loss of blood to sit down on the ground face to face.

And while they were recovering breath, the gentleman asked--

"What cause, brother, has turned our deep and unbroken friendship to
such cruel strife as this?"

"Nay," replied the brother-in-law, "what cause has moved you to slay
my sister, the most excellent woman that ever lived, and this in so
cowardly a fashion that under pretence of sleeping with her you have
hanged and strangled her with the bed-cord?"

On hearing these words the gentleman, more dead than alive, came to his
brother, and putting his arms around him, said--

"Is it possible that you have found your sister in the state you say?"

The brother-in-law assured him that it was indeed so.

"I pray you, brother," the gentleman thereupon replied, "hearken to the
reason why I left the house."

Forthwith he told him all about the wicked Grey Friar, whereat his
brother-in-law was greatly astonished, and still more grieved that he
should have unjustly attacked him.

Entreating pardon, he said to him--

"I have wronged you; forgive me."

"If you were ever wronged by me," replied the gentleman, "I have
been well punished, for I am so sorely wounded that I cannot hope to
recover."

Then the brother-in-law put him on horseback again as well as he might,
and brought him back to the house, where on the morrow he died. And the
brother-in-law confessed in presence of all the gentleman's relatives
that he had been the cause of his death.

However, for the satisfaction of justice, he was advised to go and
solicit pardon from King Francis, first of the name; and accordingly,
after giving honourable burial to husband, wife and child, he departed
on Good Friday to the Court in order to sue there for pardon, which
he obtained through the good offices of Master Francis Olivier, then
Chancellor of Alencon, afterwards chosen by the King, for his merits, to
be Chancellor of France. (5)

5 M. de Montaiglon has vainly searched the French Archives
for the letters of remission granted to the gentleman. There
is no mention of them in the registers of the Tresor des
Chartes. Francis Olivier, alluded to above, was one of the
most famous magistrates of the sixteenth century. Son of
James Olivier, First President of the Parliament of Paris
and Bishop of Angers, he was born in 1493 and became
successively advocate, member of the Grand Council,
ambassador, Chancellor of Alencon, President of the Paris
Parliament, Keeper of the Seals and Chancellor of France.
This latter dignity was conferred upon him through Queen
Margaret's influence in April 1545. The above tale must have
been written subsequent to that date. Olivier's talents were
still held in high esteem under both Henry II. and Francis
II.; he died in 1590, aged 67.--(Blanchard's _Eloges de tous
les Presidents du Parlement, &c_., Paris, 1645, in-fol. p.
185.)

Ste. Marthe, in his funeral oration on Queen Margaret,
refers to Olivier in the following pompous strain: "When
Brinon died Chancellor of this duchy of Alencon, Francis
Olivier was set in his place, and so greatly adorned this
dignity by his admirable virtues, and so increased the
grandeur of the office of Chancellor, that, like one of
exceeding merit on whom Divine Providence, disposing of the
affairs of France, has conferred a more exalted office, he
is today raised to the highest degree of honour, and, even
as Atlas upholds the Heavens upon his shoulders, so he by
his prudence doth uphold the entire Gallic commonwealth."--
M. L. and Ed.

"I am of opinion, ladies, that after hearing this true story there is
none among you but will think twice before lodging such knaves in her
house, and will be persuaded that hidden poison is always the most
dangerous."

"Remember," said Hircan, "that the husband was a great fool to bring
such a gallant to sup with his fair and virtuous wife."

"I have known the time," said Geburon, "when in our part of the country
there was not a house but had a room set apart for the good fathers; but
now they are known so well that they are dreaded more than bandits."

"It seems to me," said Parlamente, "that when a woman is in bed
she should never allow a priest to enter the room, unless it be to
administer to her the sacraments of the Church. For my own part, when I
send for them, I may indeed be deemed at the point of death."

"If every one were as strict as you are," said Ennasuite, "the poor
priests would be worse than excommunicated, in being wholly shut off
from the sight of women."

"Have no such fear on their account," said Saffredent; "they will never
want for women."

"Why," said Simontault, "'tis the very men that have united us to our
wives by the marriage tie that wickedly seek to loose it and bring about
the breaking of the oath which they have themselves laid upon us."

"It is a great pity," said Oisille, "that those who administer the
sacraments should thus trifle with them. They ought to be burned alive."

"You would do better to honour rather than blame them," said Saffredent,
"and to flatter rather than revile them, for they are men who have it in
their power to burn and dishonour others. Wherefore '_sinite eos_,' and
let us see to whom Oisille will give her vote."

"I give it," said she, "to Dagoucin, for he has become so thoughtful
that I think he must have made ready to tell us something good."

"Since I cannot and dare not reply as I would," said Dagoucin, "I will
at least tell of a man to whom similar cruelty at first brought hurt but
afterwards profit. Although Love accounts himself so strong and powerful
that he will go naked, and finds it irksome, nay intolerable, to
go cloaked, nevertheless, ladies, it often happens that those who,
following his counsel, are over-quick in declaring themselves, find
themselves the worse for it. Such was the experience of a Castilian
gentleman, whose story you shall now hear."

[Illustration: 112.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 113a.jpg Elisor showing the Queen her own Image]

[Elisor showing the Queen her own Image]

[Illustration: 113.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XXIV_.

_Elisor, having unwisely ventured to discover his love to
the Queen of Castile, was by her put to the test in so cruel
a fashion that he suffered sorely, yet did he reap advantage
therefrom_.

In the household of the King and Queen of Castile, (1) whose names
shall not be mentioned, there was a gentleman of such perfection in all
qualities of mind and body, that his like could not be found in all the
Spains. All wondered at his merits, but still more at the strangeness of
his temper, for he had never been known to love or have connection with
any lady. There were very many at Court that might have set his icy
nature afire, but there was not one among them whose charms had power to
attract Elisor; for so this gentleman was called.

1 M. Lacroix conjectures that the sovereigns referred to
are Ferdinand and Isabella, but this appears to us a
baseless supposition. The conduct of the Queen in the story
is in no wise in keeping with what we know of Isabella's
character. Queen Margaret doubtless heard this tale during
her sojourn in Spain in 1525. We have consulted many Spanish
works, and notably collections of the old ballads, in the
hope of being able to throw some light on the incidents
related, but have been no more successful than previous
commentators.--Ed.

The Queen, who was a virtuous woman but by no means free from that
flame which proves all the fiercer the less it is perceived, was much
astonished to find that this gentleman loved none of her ladies; and one
day she asked him whether it were possible that he could indeed love as
little as he seemed to do.

He replied that if she could look upon his heart as she did his face,
she would not ask him such a question. Desiring to know his meaning, she
pressed him so closely that he confessed he loved a lady whom he deemed
the most virtuous in all Christendom. The Queen did all that she could
by entreaties and commands to find out who the lady might be, but in
vain; whereupon, feigning great wrath, she vowed that she would never
speak to him any more if he did not tell her the name of the lady he so
dearly loved. At this he was greatly disturbed, and was constrained to
say that he would rather die, if need were, than name her.

Finding, however, that he would lose the Queen's presence and favour in
default of telling her a thing in itself so honourable that it ought not
to be taken in ill part by any one, he said to her in great fear--

"I cannot and dare not tell you, madam, but the first time you go
hunting I will show her to you, and I feel sure that you will deem her
the fairest and most perfect lady in the world."

This reply caused the Queen to go hunting sooner than she would
otherwise have done.

Elisor, having notice of this, made ready to attend her as was his wont,
and caused a large steel mirror after the fashion of a corselet to be
made for him, which he placed upon his breast and covered with a cloak
of black frieze, bordered with purflew and gold braid. He was mounted
on a coal-black steed, well caparisoned with everything needful to the
equipment of a horse, and such part of this as was metal was wholly of
gold, wrought with black enamel in the Moorish style. (2)

2 Damascened.--Ed.

His hat was of black silk, and to it was fastened a rich medal on which
by way of device was engraved the god of Love subdued by Force, the
whole enriched with precious stones. His sword and dagger were no
less handsomely and choicely ordered. In a word, he was most bravely
equipped, while so skilled was his horsemanship that all who saw him
left the pleasures of the chase to watch the leaps and paces of his
steed.

After bringing the Queen in this fashion to the place where the nets
were spread, he dismounted from his noble horse and went to assist the
Queen to alight from her palfrey. And whilst she was stretching out her
hands to him, he threw his cloak back from before his breast, and taking
her in his arms, showed her his corselet-mirror, saying--

"I pray you, madam, look here."

Then, without waiting for her reply, he set her down gently upon the
ground.

When the hunt was over, the Queen returned to the castle without
speaking to Elisor, but after supper she called him to her and told him
that he was the greatest liar she had ever seen; for he had promised to
show her at the hunt the lady whom he loved the best, but had not done
so, for which reason she was resolved to hold him in esteem no more.

Elisor, fearing that the Queen had not understood the words he had
spoken to her, answered that he had indeed obeyed her, for he had shown
her not merely the woman but the thing also, that he loved best in all
the world.

Pretending that she did not understand him, she replied that he had not,
to her knowledge, shown her a single one among her ladies.

"That is true, madam," said Elisor, "but what did I show you when I
helped you off your horse?"

"Nothing," said the Queen, "except a mirror on your breast."

"And what did you see in the mirror?" said Elisor.

"I saw nothing but myself," replied the Queen.

"Then, madam," said Elisor, "I have kept faith with you and obeyed your
command. There is not, nor ever will there be, another image in my heart
save that which you saw upon my breast. Her alone will I love, reverence
and worship, not as a woman merely, but as my very God on earth, in
whose hands I place my life or my death, entreating her withal that
the deep and perfect affection, which was my life whilst it remained
concealed, may not prove my death now that it is discovered. And though
I be not worthy that you should look on me or accept me for your lover,
at least suffer me to live, as hitherto, in the happy consciousness that
my heart has chosen so perfect and so worthy an object for its love,
wherefrom I can have no other satisfaction than the knowledge that my
love is deep and perfect, seeing that I must be content to love without
hope of return. And if, now knowing this great love of mine, you should
not be pleased to favour me more than heretofore, at least do not
deprive me of life, which for me consists wholly in the delight of
seeing you as usual. I now have from you nought but what my utmost need
requires, and should I have less, you will have a servant the less, for
you will lose the best and most devoted that you have ever had or could
ever look to have."

The Queen--whether to show herself other than she really was, or to
thoroughly try the love he bore her, or because she loved another whom
she would not cast off, or because she wished to hold him in reserve to
put him in the place of her actual lover should the latter give her any
offence--said to him, with a countenance that showed neither anger nor
content--"Elisor, I will not feign ignorance of the potency of love, and
say aught to you concerning your foolishness in aiming at so high and
hard a thing as the love of me; for I know that man's heart is so little
under his own control, that he cannot love or hate at will. But, since
you have concealed your feelings so well, I would fain know how long it
is since you first entertained them."

Elisor, gazing at her beauteous face and hearing her thus inquire
concerning his sickness, hoped that she might be willing to afford him
a remedy. But at the same time, observing the grave and staid expression
of her countenance, he became afraid, feeling himself to be in the
presence of a judge whose sentence, he suspected, would be against him.
Nevertheless he swore to her that this love had taken root in his heart
in the days of his earliest youth, though it was only during the past
seven years that it had caused him pain,--and yet, in truth, not pain,
but so pleasing a sickness that its cure would be his death.

"Since you have displayed such lengthened steadfastness," said the
Queen, "I must not show more haste in believing you, than you have shown
in telling me of your affection. If, therefore, it be as you say, I will
so test your sincerity that I shall never afterwards be able to doubt
it; and having proved your pain, I will hold you to be towards me such
as you yourself swear you are; and on my knowing you to be what you say,
you, for your part, shall find me to be what you desire."

Elisor begged her to test him in any way she pleased, there being
nothing, he said, so difficult that it would not appear very easy
to him, if he might have the honour of proving his love to her; and
accordingly he begged her once more to command him as to what she would
to have him do.

"Elisor," she replied, "if you love me as much as you say, I am sure
that you will deem nothing hard of accomplishment if only it may bring
you my favour. I therefore command you, by your desire of winning it and
your fear of losing it, to depart hence to-morrow morning without seeing
me again, and to repair to some place where, until this day seven years,
you shall hear nothing of me nor I anything of you. You, who have had
seven years' experience of this love, know that you do indeed love me;
and when I have had a like experience, I too shall know and believe what
your words cannot now make me either believe or understand."

When Elisor heard this cruel command, he on the one hand suspected that
she desired to remove him from her presence, yet, on the other, he hoped
that this proof would plead more eloquently for him than any words he
could utter. He therefore submitted to her command, and said--

"For seven years I have lived hopeless, bearing in my breast a hidden
flame; now, however, that this is known to you, I shall spend these
other seven years in patience and trust. But, madam, while I obey your
command, which robs me of all the happiness that I have heretofore had
in the world, what hope will you give me that at the end of the seven
years you will accept me as your faithful and devoted lover?"

"Here is a ring," said the Queen, drawing one from her finger, "which we
will cut in two. I will keep one half, and you shall keep the other, (3)
so that I may know you by this token, if the lapse of time should cause
me to forget your face."

3 This was a common practice at the time between lovers, and
even between husbands and wives. There is the familiar but
doubtful story of Frances de Foix, Countess of
Chateaubriant, who became Francis I.'s mistress, and who is
said to have divided a ring in this manner with her husband,
it being understood between them that she was not to repair
to Court, or even leave her residence in Brittany, unless
her husband sent her as a token the half of the ring which
he had kept. Francis I., we are told, heard of this, and
causing a ring of the same pattern to be made, he sent half
of it to the Countess, who thereupon came to Court,
imagining that it was her husband who summoned her. Whether
the story be true or not, it should be mentioned that the
sole authority for it is Varillas, whose errors and
inventions are innumerable.--Ed.

Elisor took the ring and broke it in two, giving one half of it to the
Queen, and keeping the other himself. Then, more corpse-like than those
who have given up the ghost, he took his leave, and went to his
lodging to give orders for his departure. In doing this he sent all his
attendants to his house, and departed alone with one servingman to
so solitary a spot that none of his friends or kinsfolk could obtain
tidings of him during the seven years.

Of the life that he led during this time, and the grief that he endured
through this banishment, nothing is recorded, but lovers cannot be
ignorant of their nature. At the end of the seven years, just as the
Queen was one day going to mass, a hermit with a long beard came to her,
kissed her hand, and presented her with a petition. This she did not
look at immediately, although it was her custom to receive in her own
hands all the petitions that were presented to her, no matter how poor
the petitioners might be.

When mass was half over, however, she opened the petition, and found in
it the half-ring which she had given to Elisor. At this she was not
less glad than astonished, and before reading the contents she instantly
commanded her almoner to bring her the tall hermit who had presented her
the petition.

The almoner looked for him everywhere, but could obtain no tidings of
him, except that some one said that he had seen him mount a horse, but
knew not what road he had taken.

Whilst she was waiting for the almoner's return, the Queen read the
petition, which she found to be an epistle in verse, written in the best
style imaginable; and were it not that I would have you acquainted
with it, I should never have dared to translate it; for you must know,
ladies, that, for grace and expression, the Castilian is beyond compare
the tongue which is best fitted to set forth the passion of love. The
matter of the letter was as follows:--

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