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

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

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Perceiving at last that the butcher intended him no hurt, the good
father told him the reason why he had hidden himself in the sty. Then
was their fear turned to laughter, except, indeed, that the poor Friar's
leg was too painful to suffer him to be merry. However, the butcher
brought him into the house, where he caused the hurt to be carefully
dressed.

His comrade, who had deserted him in his need, ran all night long, and
in the morning came to the house of the Lord of Fors, where he lodged
a complaint against the butcher, whom he suspected of killing his
companion, seeing that the latter had not followed him. The Lord of Fors
forthwith sent to Grip to learn the truth, and this, when known, was by
no means the cause of tears. And he failed not to tell the story to his
mistress the Duchess of Angouleme, mother of King Francis, first of that
name. (4)

4 Many modern stories and anecdotes have been based on this
amusing tale.--Ed.

"You see, ladies, how bad a thing it is to listen to secrets that do not
concern us, and to misunderstand what other people say."

"Did I not know," said Simontault, "that Nomer-fide would give us no
cause to weep, but rather to laugh? And I think that we have all done so
very heartily."

"How comes it," said Oisille, "that we are more ready to be amused by a
piece of folly than by something wisely done?"

"Because," said Hircan, "the folly is more agreeable to us, for it is
more akin to our own nature, which of itself is never wise. And like is
fond of like, the fool of folly, and the wise man of discretion. But
I am sure," he continued, "that no one, whether foolish or wise, could
help laughing at this story."

"There are some," said Geburon, "whose hearts are so bestowed on the
love of wisdom that, whatever they may hear, they cannot be made to
laugh. They have a gladness of heart and a moderate content such as
nought can move."

"Who are they?" asked Hircan.

"The philosophers of olden days," said Geburon. "They were scarcely
sensible of either sadness or joy, or at least they gave no token of
either, so great a virtue did they deem the conquest of themselves and
their passions. I too think, as they did, that it is well to subdue a
wicked passion, but a victory over a natural passion, and one that tends
to no evil, appears useless in my eyes."

"And yet," added Geburon, "the ancients held it for a great virtue."

"It is not maintained," said Saffredent, "that they all were wise. They
had more of the appearance of sense and virtue than of the reality."

"Nevertheless, you will find that they rebuke everything bad," said
Geburon. "Diogenes himself, even, trod on the bed of Plato, who was too
fond (5) of rare and precious things for his taste, and this in order to
show that he despised Plato's vanity and greed, and would put them under
foot. 'I trample with contempt,' said he, 'upon the pride of Plato.'"

"But you have not told all," said Saffredent, "for Plato retorted that
he did so from pride of another kind."

"In truth," said Parlamente, "it is impossible to accomplish the
conquest of ourselves without extraordinary pride. And this is the
vice that we should fear most of all, for it springs from the death and
destruction of all the virtues."

"Did I not read to you this morning," said Oisille, "that those who
thought themselves wiser than other men, since by the sole light of
reason they had come to recognise a God, creator of all things, were
made more ignorant and irrational not only than other men, but than the
very brutes, and this because they did not ascribe the glory to Him to
whom it was due, but thought that they had gained the knowledge they
possessed by their own endeavours? For having erred in their minds
by ascribing to themselves that which pertains to God alone, they
manifested their errors by disorder of body, forgetting and perverting
their natural sex, as St. Paul to-day doth tell us in the Epistle that
he wrote to the Romans." (6)

5 The French word here is _curieux_, which in Margaret's
time implied one fond of rare and precious things.--B. J

6 _Romans_ i. 26, 27.--Ed.

"There is none among us," said Parlamente, "but will confess, on reading
that Epistle, that outward sin is but the fruit of infelicity dwelling
within, which, the more it is hidden by virtue and marvels, is the more
difficult to pluck out."

"We men," said Hircan, "are nearer to salvation than you are, for we do
not conceal our fruits, and so the root is readily known; whereas you,
who dare not display the fruit, and who do so many seemingly fair deeds,
are hardly aware of the root of pride that is growing beneath so brave a
surface."

"I acknowledge," said Longarine, "that if the Word of God does not show
us by faith the leprosy of unbelief that lurks in the heart, yet God
is very merciful to us when He allows us to fall into some visible
wrongdoing whereby the hidden plague may be made manifest. Happy are
they whom faith has so humbled that they have no need to test their
sinful nature by outward acts."

"But just look where we are now," said Simontault. "We started from a
foolish tale, and we are now fallen into philosophy and theology. Let
us leave these disputes to such as are more fitted for such speculation,
and ask Nomerfide to whom she will give her vote."

"I give it," she said, "to Hircan, but I commend to him the honour of
the ladies."

"You could not have commended it in a better place," said Hircan, "for
the story that I have ready is just such a one as will please you. It
will, nevertheless, teach you to acknowledge that the nature of men and
women is of itself prone to vice if it be not preserved by Him to whom
the honour of every victory is due. And to abate the pride that you
display when a story is told to your honour, I will tell you one of a
different kind that is strictly true."

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[Illustration: 049a.jpg The Lady embracing the Supposed Friar]

[The Lady embracing the Supposed Friar]

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_TALE XXXV_.

_The affection of a lady of Pampeluna--who, thinking that
there was no danger in spiritual love, had striven to
insinuate herself into the good graces of a Grey Friar--was
subdued by her husband's prudence in such wise that, without
telling her that he knew aught of the matter, he brought her
mortally to hate that which she had most dearly loved, and
wholly to devote herself to him_.

In the town of Pampeluna there lived a lady who was accounted beautiful
and virtuous, as well as the chastest and most pious in the land. She
loved her husband, and was so obedient to him that he had entire trust
in her. This lady was constantly present at Divine service and at
sermons, and she used to persuade her husband and children to be hearers
with her. She had reached the age of thirty years, at which women are
wont to claim discretion rather than beauty, when on the first day of
Lent she went to the church to receive the emblem of death. (1) Here she
found that the sermon was beginning, the preacher being a Grey Friar,
a man esteemed holy by all the people on account of his great austerity
and goodness of life, which made him thin and pale, yet not to such a
point as to prevent him from being one of the handsomest men imaginable.

The lady listened piously to his sermon, her eyes being fixed on this
reverend person, and her ears and mind ready to hearken to what he said.
And so it happened that the sweetness of his words passed through the
lady's ears even to her heart, while the comeliness and grace of his
countenance passed through her eyes and so smote her soul that she was
as one entranced. When the sermon was over, she looked carefully to
see where the Friar would celebrate mass, (2) and there she presented
herself to take the ashes from his hand. The latter was as fair and
white as any lady's, and this pious lady paid more attention to it than
to the ashes which it gave her.

1 To receive the ashes on Ash Wednesday.--M.

2 That is, in which of the chapels. A friar would not
officiate at the high altar.--Ed.

Feeling persuaded that a spiritual love such as this, with any pleasure
that she might derive from it, could not wound her conscience, she
failed not to go and hear the sermon every day and to take her husband
with her; and they both gave such great praise to the preacher, that
they spoke of nought beside at table or elsewhere. At last this supposed
spiritual fire became so carnal that the poor lady's heart in which it
glowed began to consume her whole body; and just as she had been slow to
feel the flame, so did she now swiftly kindle, and feel all the delights
of passion, before she knew that she even was in love. Being thus
surprised by her enemy, Love, she offered no further resistance to his
commands. But the worst was that the physician who might have cured
her ills was ignorant of her distemper; for which reason, banishing the
dread she should have had of making known her foolishness to a man of
wisdom, and her vice and wickedness to a man of virtue and honour, she
proceeded to write to him of the love she bore him, doing this, to begin
with, as modestly as she could. And she gave her letter to a little
page, telling him what he had to do, and saying that he was to be
careful above all things that her husband should not see him going to
the monastery of the Grey Friars.

The page, desiring to take the shortest way, passed through a street in
which his master was sitting in a shop. Seeing him pass, the gentleman
came out to observe whither he was going, and when the page perceived
him, he was quite confused, and hid himself in a house. Noticing this,
his master followed him, took him by the arm and asked him whither he
was bound. Finding also that he had a terrified look and made but empty
excuses, he threatened to beat him soundly if he did not confess the
truth.

"Alas, sir," said the poor page, "if I tell you, my lady will kill me."

The gentleman, suspecting that his wife was making some bargain without
his knowledge, promised the page that he should come by no hurt, and
should be well rewarded, if he told the truth; whereas, if he lied, he
should be thrown into prison for life. Thereupon the little page, eager
to have the good and to avoid the evil, told him the whole story, and
showed him the letter that his mistress had written to the preacher. At
this her husband was the more astonished and grieved, as he had all his
life long been persuaded of the faithfulness of his wife, in whom he had
never discovered a fault.

Nevertheless, being a prudent man, he concealed his anger, and so that
he might fully learn his wife's intention, he sent a reply as though
from the preacher, thanking her for her goodwill, and declaring that his
was as great towards her. The page, having sworn to his master that he
would conduct the matter with discretion, (3) brought the counterfeit
letter to his mistress, who was so greatly rejoiced by it that her
husband could see that her countenance was changed; for, instead of
growing lean from the fasts of Lent, she now appeared fairer and fresher
than before they began.

3 This is borrowed from MS. 1520. In our MS. the passage
runs, "The page having shown his master how to conduct this
affair," &c.--L.

It was now mid-Lent, but no thought of the Passion or Holy Week
prevented the lady from writing her frenzied fancies to the preacher
according to her wont; and when he turned his eyes in her direction, or
spoke of the love of God, she thought that all was done or said for love
of her; and so far as her eyes could utter her thoughts, she did not
spare them.

The husband never failed to return her similar answers, but after Easter
he wrote to her in the preacher's name, begging her to let him know how
he could secretly see her. She, all impatient for the meeting, advised
her husband to go and visit some estates of theirs in the country, and
this he agreed to do, hiding himself, however, in the house of a friend.
Then the lady failed not to write to the preacher that it was time he
should come and see her, since her husband was in the country.

The gentleman, wishing thoroughly to try his wife's heart, then went to
the preacher, and begged him for the love of God to lend him his robe.
The preacher, who was a man of worth, replied that the rules of
his Order forbade it, and that he would never lend his robe for a
masquerade. (4) The gentleman assured him, however, that he would make
no evil use of it, and that he wanted it for a matter necessary to his
happiness and his salvation. Thereupon the Friar, who knew the other
to be a worthy and pious man, lent it to him; and with this robe, which
covered his face so that his eyes could not be seen, the gentleman put
on a false beard and a false nose, each similar to the preacher's. He
also made himself of the same height by means of cork. (5)

4 This may be compared with the episode of Tappe-coue or
Tickletoby in Pantagruel:--"Villon, to dress an old clownish
father grey-beard, who was to represent God the Father [at
the performance of a mystery], begged of Friar Stephen
Tickletoby, sacristan to the Franciscan Friars of the place,
to lend him a cope and a stole. Tickletoby refused him,
alleging that by their provincial statutes it was rigorously
forbidden to give or lend anything to players. Villon
replied that the statute reached no further than farces,
drolls, antics, loose and dissolute games.... Tickletoby,
however, peremptorily bid him provide himself elsewhere, if
he would, and not to hope for anything out of his monastical
wardrobe.... Villon gave an account of this to the players
as of a most abominable action; adding that God would
shortly revenge himself and make an example of Tickletoby."--
Urquhart's _Works of Rabelais, Pantagruel_, (Book IV.
xiii.)--M.

5 In Boaistuau's edition the sentence runs, "and by putting
some cork in his shoes made himself of the same height as
the preacher."--L.

Thus garmented, he repaired in the evening to his wife's apartment,
where she was very piously awaiting him. The poor fool did not tarry
for him to come to her, but ran to embrace him like a woman bereft of
reason. Keeping his face bent down lest he should be recognised, he
then began making the sign of the cross, and pretended to flee from her,
saying the while nothing but--

"Temptation! temptation!"

"Alas, father," said the lady, "you are indeed right, for there is no
stronger temptation than that which proceeds from love. But for this
you have promised me a remedy; and I pray you, now that we have time and
opportunity, to take pity upon me."

So saying, she strove to embrace him, but he ran all round the room,
making great signs of the cross, and still crying--

"Temptation! temptation!"

However, when he found that she was urging him too closely, he took a
big stick that he had beneath his cloak and beat her so sorely as to
end her temptation, and that without being recognised by her. Then he
immediately went and returned the robe to the preacher, assuring him
that it had brought him good fortune.

On the morrow, pretending to come from a distance, he returned home and
found his wife in bed, when, as though he knew nothing of her sickness,
he asked her the cause of it; and she replied that it was a catarrh,
and that she could move neither hand nor foot. The husband, who was much
inclined to laugh, made as though he were greatly grieved, and as if
to cheer her told her that he had bidden the saintly preacher to supper
that evening. But she quickly replied--

"God forbid, sweetheart, that you should ever invite such folk. They
bring misfortune into every house they visit."

"Why, sweet," said the husband, "how is this? You have always greatly
praised this man, and for my own part I believe that if there be a holy
man on earth, it is he."

"They are good in church and when preaching," answered the lady, "but in
our houses they are very antichrists. I pray you, sweet, let me not see
him, for with my present sickness it would be enough to kill me."

"Since you do not wish to see him," returned the husband, "you shall not
do so, but I must have him here to supper."

"Do what you will," she replied, "but let me not see him, for I hate
such folk as I do the devil."

After giving supper to the good father, the husband said to him--

"Father, I believe you to be so beloved of God, that He will refuse you
no request. I therefore entreat you to take pity on my poor wife, who
for a week past has been possessed by the evil spirit in such a way,
that she tries to bite and scratch every one. She cares for neither
cross nor holy water, but I verily believe that if you will lay your
hand upon her the devil will come forth, and I therefore earnestly
entreat you to do so."

"My son," said the good father, "all things are possible to a believer.
Do you, then, firmly believe that God in His goodness never refuses
those that in faith seek grace from Him?"

"I do, father," said the gentleman.

"Be also assured, my son," said the friar, "that He can do what He will,
and that He is even as powerful as He is good. Let us go, then, strong
in faith to withstand this roaring lion, and to pluck from him his prey,
whom God has purchased by the blood of Jesus Christ, His Son."

Accordingly, the gentleman led this worthy man to where his wife lay on
a little bed. She, thinking that it was the Friar who had beaten her,
was much astonished to see him there and exceedingly wrathful; however,
her husband being present, she cast down her eyes, and remained dumb.

"As long as I am with her," said the husband to the holy man, "the devil
scarcely torments her. But sprinkle some holy water upon her as soon as
I am gone, and you will soon see how the evil spirit does his work."

The husband left them alone together, and waited at the door to see
how they would behave. When the lady saw no one with her but the good
father, she began to cry out like a woman bereft of reason, calling him
rascal, villain, murderer, betrayer. At this, the good father, thinking
that she was surely possessed by an evil spirit, tried to put his hands
upon her head, in order to utter his prayers upon it; but she scratched
and bit him in such a fashion, that he was obliged to speak at a greater
distance, whence, throwing a great deal of holy water upon her, he
pronounced many excellent prayers.

When the husband saw that the Friar had done his duty, he came into the
room and thanked him for his trouble. At his entrance his wife ceased
her cursings and revilings, and meekly kissed the cross in the fear
she had of him. But the holy man, having seen her in so great a frenzy,
firmly believed that Our Lord had cast out the devil in answer to his
prayer, and he went away, praising God for this wonderful miracle.

The husband, seeing that his wife was well punished for her foolish
fancy, did not tell her of what he had done. He was content to have
subdued her affection by his own prudence, and to have so dealt with her
that she now hated mortally what she had formerly loved, and, loathing
her folly, devoted herself to her husband and household more completely
than she had ever done before.

"In this story, ladies, you see the good sense of a husband and the
frailty of a woman of repute. I think that if you look carefully into
this mirror you will no longer trust to your own strength, but will
learn to have recourse to Him who holds your honour in His hand."

"I am well pleased," said Parlamente, "to find you become a preacher to
the ladies, and I should be even more so if you would make these fine
sermons to all those with whom you speak."

"Whenever you are willing to listen to me," said Hircan, "I promise you
that I will say as much."

"In other words," said Simontault, "when you are not present, he will
speak in a different fashion."

"He will do as he pleases," said Parlamente, "but for my content I wish
to believe that he always speaks in this way. At all events, the example
he has brought forward will be profitable to those who believe that
spiritual love is not dangerous. In my opinion it is more so than any
other."

"Yet," said Oisille, "it seems to me that to love a worthy, virtuous and
God-fearing man is in nowise a matter for scorn, and that one cannot but
be the better for it."

"Madam," said Parlamente, "I pray you believe that no one can be more
simple or more easily deceived than a woman who has never loved. For in
itself love is a passion that seizes upon the heart before one is aware
of it, and so pleasing a passion is it that, if it can make use of
virtue as a cloak, it will scarcely be recognised before some mischief
has come of it."

"What mischief," asked Oisille, "can come of loving a worthy man?"

"Madam," said Parlamente, "there are a good many men that are esteemed
worthy, but to be worthy in respect of the ladies, and to be careful for
their honour and conscience--not one such man as that could, I think, be
found in these days. Those who think otherwise, and put their trust in
men, find at last that they have been deceived, and, having begun such
intimacy with obedience to God, will often end it with obedience to the
devil. I have known many who, under pretext of speaking about God, began
an intimacy from which they could not withdraw when at last they wished
to do so, being held in subjection by this semblance of virtue. A
vicious love perishes of its own nature, and cannot continue in a good
heart, but virtuous love has bonds of silk so fine that one is caught in
them before they are seen."

"According to you," said Ennasuite, "no woman should ever love a man;
but your law is too harsh a one to last."

"I know that," said Parlamente, "but none the less must I desire that
every one were as content with her own husband as I am with mine."

Ennasuite, who felt that these words touched her, changed colour and
said--

"You ought to believe every one the same at heart as yourself, unless,
indeed, you think yourself more perfect than all others."

"Well," said Parlamente, "to avoid dispute, let us see to whom Hircan
will give his vote."

"I give it," Hircan replied, "to Ennasuite, in order to make amends to
her for what my wife has said."

"Then, since it is my turn," said Ennasuite, "I will spare neither man
nor woman, that all may fare alike. I see right well that you are unable
to subdue your hearts to acknowledge the virtue and goodness of men, for
which reason I am obliged to resume the discourse with a story like to
the last."

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[Illustration: 063a.jpg The Clerk entreating Forgiveness of the President]

[The Clerk entreating Forgiveness of the President]

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_TALE XXXVI_.

_By means of a salad a President of Grenoble avenged himself
upon one of his clerks with whom his wife was smitten, and
so saved the honour of his house_.

In the town of Grenoble there dwelt a President whose name I shall not
mention, but he was not a Frenchman. (1) He had a very beautiful wife,
and they lived in great tranquillity together.

1 The personage referred to is Jeffroy Charles or Carles,
Chief President of the Parliament of Grenoble, and President
of the Senate of Turin; his wife's name was Margaret du
Mottet; she came of a very old family of Embrun. Some
interesting particulars concerning President Charles,
supplied by that erudite scholar M. Jules Roman, will be
found in the Appendix to the present volume (A).--Ed.

This lady, finding that her husband was now old, fell in love with a
young clerk, called Nicholas. When the President went to the court in
the morning, Nicholas used to enter his room and take his place. This
was observed by a servant of the President's who had served his master
well for thirty years, and in his faithfulness he could not refrain from
speaking to him of the matter.

The President, being a prudent man, would not lightly believe the story,
but said that the servant wished to create contention between himself
and his wife. If the matter, said he, were really as the servant
declared, he could easily prove it to him, and if proof were not given
he would believe that it was a lie contrived in order to destroy the
love existing between himself and his wife. The servant promised that he
would show him the truth of what he had said, and one morning, as soon
as the President was gone to the court and Nicholas had entered the
room, he sent one of his fellow-servants to tell his master to come,
while he himself remained watching at the door lest Nicholas should come
out.

As soon as the President saw the sign that was made to him by one of his
servants, he pretended to be ill, left the court and hastened home.
Here he found his old servant at the door, and was assured by him that
Nicholas was inside and had only just gone in.

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