132.jpg Tailpiece
133a. The Lady Swooning in The Arms of The Gentleman Of Valencia Who Had Become a Monk
133.jpg Page Image
After a lady had for the space of five or six years madetrial of the love that a certain gentleman bore her, shedesired to have a still stronger proof of it, and reducedhim to such despair that he turned monk, on which accountshe was not able to win him back again when she would fainhave done so.
In the city of Valencia there lived a gentleman, who for the space of five or six years had loved a lady so perfectly that the honour and conscience of neither of them had taken any hurt; for his intent was to have her as his wife, and this was reasonable, seeing that he was handsome, rich and of good descent. But, before he became her lover, he first inquired concerning her own mind, whereupon she declared herself willing to marry according to the counsels of her kinsfolk. The latter, being come together for the purpose, deemed the marriage a very reasonable one provided that the maiden was herself disposed to it; but she—whether because she thought to do better or because she wished to hide her love for him—-made some difficulty, and the company separated, not without regret at having failed to conclude a match so well suited to both parties.
The most grieved of all was the poor gentleman, who would have borne his misfortune with patience had he thought that the fault lay with the kinsfolk and not with her; but he knew the truth, and the knowledge was to him worse than death. So, without speaking to his sweetheart or to any other person, he withdrew to his own house, and, after setting his affairs in order, betook himself to a solitary spot, where he strove to forget his love and change it wholly to that love of our Lord which were truly a higher duty than the other.
During this time he received no tidings of his mistress or her kindred, and he therefore resolved that, since he had failed to obtain the happiest life he could hope for, he would choose the most austere and disagreeable that he could imagine. With this sad intent, which might well have been called despair, he went and became a monk in the monastery of St. Francis. This monastery was not far from the dwellings of divers of his kinsfolk, who, on hearing of his desperate condition, did all that in them lay to hinder his purpose; but this was so firmly rooted in his heart that it was not possible to turn him from it.
Nevertheless, as the source of his distemper was known to them, they determined to seek the cure, and so repaired to her who was the cause of his sudden devoutness. She was greatly astonished and grieved by this mischance, for, in refusing for a time, she had thought only to test his affection, not to lose it for ever. Seeing now the evident risk that she ran of doing this last, she sent him a letter, which, ill-translated, was as follows:—
“Since love, if tested not full needfully,Steadfast and faithful is not shown to be,By length of time my heart would that assayWhereon itself was set to love alway—To wit, a husband with that true love filledSuch as no lapsing time has ever killed.This, then, was the sole reason that I drewMy kin to hinder for a year or twoThat closest tie which lasts till life is not,And whereby woe is oftentimes begot.Yet sought I not to have you wholly sentAway; such was in no wise my intent,For none save you could I have e’er adoredOr looked to as my husband and my lord.But woe is me, what tidings reach mine ear!That you, to lead the cloistered life austere,Are gone with speech to none; whereat the painThat ever holds me, now can brook no rein,But forces me mine own estate to slightFor that which yours aforetime was of right;To seek him out who once sought me alone,And win him who myself has sometimes won.Nay then, my love, life of the life in me,For loss of whom I fain would cease to be,Turn hither, graciously, those eyes of painAnd trace those wandering footsteps back again.Leave the grey robe and its austerity,Come back and taste of that felicityWhich often you desired, and which to-dayTime has nor slain, nor swept away.For you alone I’ve kept myself; and I,Lacking your presence, cannot choose but die.Come back then; in your sweetheart have belief,And for past memories find cool reliefIn holy marriage-ties. Ah! then, my dear,To me, not to your pride give ready ear,And rest of this assured, I had no thoughtTo give, sweetheart, to you offence in aught,But only yearned your faithfulness to proveAnd then to make you happy with my love.But now that through this trial, free from scathe,Are come your steadfastness and patient faith,And all that loyal love to me is known,Which at the last has made me yours alone,Come, my beloved, take what is your dueAnd wholly yield to me, as I to you!”
This letter, brought by a friend of hers with every remonstrance that it was possible to make, was received and read by the gentleman friar with such sadness of countenance, such sighs and such tears, that it seemed as though he would drown and burn the poor epistle. But he made no reply to it, except to tell the messenger that the mortification of his exceeding passion had cost him so dear as to have taken from him both the wish to live and the fear to die. He therefore requested her who had been the cause of this, that since she had not chosen to satisfy his passionate longings, she would, now that he was rid of them, abstain from tormenting him, and rest content with the evil which was past. For that evil he could find no remedy but the choice of an austere life, which by continual penance might bring him to forget his grief, and, by fasts and disciplines, subdue his body, till the thought of death should be to him but a sovereign consolation. Above all, he begged that he might never hear of her, since he found the mere remembrance of her name a purgatory not to be endured.
The gentleman went back with this mournful reply, and reported it to the maiden who did not hear it without intolerable sorrow. But Love, which will not suffer the spirit utterly to fail, gave her the thought that, if she could see him, her words and presence might be of more effect than the writing. She therefore, with her father and the nearest of her kin, went to the monastery where he abode. She had left nothing in her box that might set off her beauty, for she felt sure that, could he but once look at her and hear her, the fire that had so long dwelt in both their hearts must of necessity be kindled again in greater strength than before.
Coming thus into the monastery towards the end of vespers, she sent for him to come to her in a chapel that was in the cloister. He, knowing not who it was that sought him, went in all ignorance to the sternest battle in which he had ever been. When she saw him so pale and wan that she could hardly recognise him, yet filled with grace, in no whit less winning than of yore, Love made her stretch out her arms to embrace him, whilst her pity at seeing him in such a plight so enfeebled her heart, that she sank swooning to the floor.
The poor monk, who was not void of brotherly charity, lifted her up and set her upon a seat in the chapel. Although he had no less need of aid than she had, he feigned to be unaware of her passion, and so strengthened his heart in the love of God against the opportunities now present with him, that, judging by his countenance, he seemed not to know what was actually before him. Having recovered from her weakness, she turned upon him her beautiful, piteous eyes, which were enough to soften a rock, and began to utter all such discourse as she believed apt to draw him from the place in which he now was. He replied as virtuously as he was able; but at last, finding that his heart was being softened by his sweetheart’s abundant tears, and perceiving that Love, the cruel archer whose pains he long had known, was ready with his golden dart to deal him fresh and more deadly wounds, he fled both from Love and from his sweetheart, like one whose only resource lay, indeed, in flight.
When he was shut up in his room, not desiring to let her go without some settlement of the matter, he wrote her a few words in Spanish, which seem to me so excellent in their matter that I would not by translating them mar their grace. These were brought to her by a little novice, who found her still in the chapel and in such despair that, had it been lawful, she too would have remained there and turned friar. But when she saw the words, which were these—
“Volvete don venesti, anima mia,Que en las tristas vidas es la mia,” (1)
she knew that all hope was gone, and she resolved to follow the advice of him and her friends, and so returned home, there to lead a life as melancholy as that of her lover in his monastery was austere.
1 “Return whence thou earnest, my soul,for among the sad lives is mine.”’
“You see, ladies, what vengeance the gentleman took upon his harsh sweetheart, who, thinking to try him, reduced him to such despair that, when she would have regained him, she could not do so.”
“I am sorry,” said Nomerfide, “that he did not lay aside his gown and marry her. It would, I think, have been a perfect marriage.”
“In good sooth,” said Simontault, “I think he was very wise. Anyone who well considers what marriage is will deem it no less grievous than a monkish life. Moreover, being so greatly weakened by fasts and abstinence, he feared to take upon him a burden of that kind which lasts all through life.”
“Methinks,” said Hircan, “she wronged so feeble a man by tempting him to marriage, for ‘tis too much for the strongest man alive; but had she spoken to him of love, free from any obligation but that of the will, there is no friar’s cord that would not have been untied. However, since she sought to draw him out of purgatory by offering him hell, I think that he was quite right to refuse her, and to let her feel the pain that her own refusal had cost him.”
“By my word,” said Ennasuite, “there are many who, thinking to do better than their fellows, do either worse or else the very opposite of what they desire.”
“Truly,” said Geburon, “you remind me—though, indeed, the matter is not greatly to the point—of a woman who did the opposite of what she desired, and so caused a great uproar in the church of St. John of Lyons.”
“I pray you,” said Parlamente, “take my place and tell us about it.”
“My story,” said Geburon, “will not be so long or so piteous as the one we have heard from Parlamente.”
141.jpg Tailpiece
143a. The Old Woman Startled by The Waking of The Soldier
143.jpg Page Image
Though the priests of St. John of Lyons would fain haveconcealed it, the falsity of a miracle was brought to lightthrough an old woman’s folly becoming known. (1)
In the church of St. John of Lyons there is a very dark chapel, and inside it a stone tomb with figures of great personages raised life-like upon it, whilst several men-at-arms lie all around it.
1 We believe that the incident here narrated occurred earlyin 1525, when Margaret is known to have been at Lyons. Sheand her husband (on his return from Pavia) resided there atthe house of the Obédiencier de St. Just, and it was in thechurch of St. Just that the Duke of Alençon was buried.Doubtless it was during his illness that thenovenaalluded to in the final tale of theHeptameronwasperformed by Queen Margaret at the church of St. John ofLyons, where the two most important chapels, according toQuincarnon’sAntiquités et la fondation de la Métropoledes Gaules, &c., Lyons, 1673, were the Most Holy Eucharist,or Bourbon chapel, built in 1449 by Charles de Bourbon,Primate of Gaul, and the Holy Sepulchre, or Good Fridaychapel, erected at the beginning of the fifteenth century byPhilip de Turey, Archbishop of Lyons. Unfortunately thechurch of St. John was in 1652 devastated by the Huguenots,who in their insensate fury destroyed almost all the tombs.It is therefore now impossible to identify the chapel andtomb to which the Queen of Navarre refers in the abovestory, though her allusion to the dimness of the light wouldincline us to place the incident she recounts in theChapelle du St. Sépulcre.—L. and Ed.
One day a soldier, walking in the church at the very height of summer, felt inclined to sleep, and, looking at this dark, cool chapel, resolved to go and guard the tomb in sleep like the rest; (2) and accordingly he lay down beside them. Now it chanced that a very pious old woman came in while his sleep was the soundest, and having performed her devotions, holding a lighted taper in her hand, she sought to fix this taper to the tomb. Finding that the sleeping man was nearest to her, she tried to set it upon his forehead, thinking that it was of stone; but the wax would not stick to such stone as this, whereupon the worthy dame, believing that the reason of it was the coldness of the statue, applied the flame to the sleeper’s forehead, that she might the better fix the taper on it. At this, however, the statue, which was not without feeling, began to cry out.
2 Meaning the recumbent statues of the men-at-arms.—Ed.
The good woman was then in exceeding fear, and set herself to shout, “A miracle! a miracle!” until all who were in the church ran, some to ring the bells, and the rest to view the miracle. The good woman forthwith took them to see the statue that had stirred, whereupon many found food for laughter; though the greater number were unable to feel any content, inasmuch as they had really determined to make profit out of the tomb, and to gain as much money by it as by the crucifix on their pulpit, which is said to have spoken. (3) But when the woman’s folly became known the farce came to an end. If all knew of their follies, they would not be accounted holy nor their miracles true. And I would beg you, ladies, to see henceforward to what saints you offer your candles. (4)
3 The crucifix in the church of St. John was mainly ofsilver, and, according to Quincarnon, at the time of aHuguenot outbreak at Lyons it was thrown to the ground by aCalvinist minister named Ruffy, who, after reducing it tofragments, carried all the precious metal away with him.—M.4 The latter portion of this story and all the dialoguethat follows it are omitted by Boaistuau in his edition.Gruget inserted the dialogue, but he did not dare to printthe passage respecting the talking crucifix.—L.
“‘Tis notable,” said Hircan, “that, whatever the matter in question may be, women always do wrong.”
“Is it wrong,” asked Nomerfide, “to bring candles to a tomb?”
“Yes,” said Hircan, “if the flame be turned against a man’s forehead; for nothing good should be called good if it be attended with evil. You may be sure that the poor woman thought she had made a fine gift to God with her little candle.”
“I look not to the gift,” said Oisille, “but to the heart that offers it. Perhaps this worthy woman had more love for God than those who offer great torches; for, as the Gospel says, she gave of her need.”
“Still, I no not believe,” said Saffredent, “that God, who is sovereign wisdom, can be pleased with the foolishness of women. Although simplicity is pleasing to Him, I see from the Scriptures that He despises the ignorant; and if He commands us to be as harmless as the dove, He none the less commands us to be wise like the serpent.”
“For my part,” said Oisille, “I do not call the woman ignorant who brings her candle or burning taper into the presence of God, and makes amends for her wrongdoing on bended knees before her sovereign Lord, confessing her unworthiness and with steadfast hope seeking pity and salvation.”
“Would to God,” said Dagoucin, “that all understood it in the same way as you; but I do not believe that these poor fools do it with the intent you say.”
“The women,” said Oisille, “who are least able to speak are just those who are most sensible of the love and will of God; wherefore ‘tis well to judge none but ourselves.”
Ennasuite laughed and said—“‘Tis no wonderful thing to have frightened a sleeping varlet, since women of as lowly condition have frightened noble Princes, without putting fire to their foreheads.”
“I am sure,” said Geburon, “that you know some such story, which you are willing to relate; wherefore, if it please you, you shall take my place.”
“The tale will not be a long one,” said Ennasuite, “but, could I recount it just as it happened, you would have no desire to weep.”
147.jpg Tailpiece
149a. The Old Serving-woman Explaining Her Mistake To The Duke and Duchess of Vendôme
149.jpg Page Image
The Duke of Vendôme and the Princess of Navarre, whilstresting together one afternoon, were surprised by an oldserving-woman, who took them for a prothonotary and a damselbetween whom she suspected some affection; and, through thisfine justicement, a matter, of which intimates wereignorant, was made known to strangers.
In the year when the Duke of Vendôme married the Princess of Navarre, (1) the King and Queen, their parents, after feasting at Vendôme, went with them into Guienne, and, visiting a gentleman’s house where there were many honourable and beautiful ladies, the newly married pair danced so long in this excellent company that they became weary, and, withdrawing to their chamber, lay down in their clothes upon the bed and fell asleep, doors and windows being shut and none remaining with them.
1 It was in October 1548, some eighteen months after HenryII. had succeeded Francis I., that Anthony de Bourbon, Dukeof Vendôme, who after the King’s children held the firstrank in France, was married at Moulins to Margaret’sdaughter Jane of Navarre. The Duke was then thirty and Janetwenty years old. “I never saw so joyous a bride,” wroteHenry II. to Montmorency, “she never does anything butlaugh.” She was indeed well pleased with the match, thebetter so, perhaps, as her husband had settled 100,000livres on her, a gift which was the more acceptable byreason of her extravagant tastes and love of display. Ste.Marthe, in hisOraison Funèbreon Queen Margaret, speaksof her daughter’s marriage as “a most fortunateconjunction,” and refers to her son-in-law as “the mostvaliant and magnanimous Prince Anthony, Duke of Vendôme,whose admirable virtues have so inclined all France to loveand revere him, that princes and nobles, the populace, thegreat and the humble alike, no sooner hear his namementioned than they forthwith wish him and beg God to bestowon him all possible health and prosperity.”—Ed
Just, however, when their sleep was at its soundest, they were awakened by their door being opened from without, and the Duke drew the curtain and looked to see who it might be, suspecting indeed that it was one of his friends who was minded to surprise him. But he perceived a tall, old bed-chamber woman come in and walk straight up to their bed, where, for the darkness of the room, she could not recognise them. Seeing them, however, quite close together, she began to cry out—
“Thou vile and naughty wanton! I have long suspected thee to be what thou art, yet for lack of proof spoke not of it to my mistress. But now thy vileness is so clearly shown that I shall in no sort conceal it; and thou, foul renegade, who hast wrought such shame in this house by the undoing of this poor wench, if it were not for the fear of God, I would e’en cudgel thee where thou liest. Get up, in the devil’s name, get up, for methinks even now thou hast no shame.”
The Duke of Vendôme and the Princess hid their faces against each other in order to have the talk last longer, and they laughed so heartily that they were not able to utter a word. Finding that for all her threats they were not willing to rise, the serving-woman came closer in order to pull them by the arms. Then she at once perceived both from their faces and from their dress that they were not those whom she sought, and, recognising them, she flung herself upon her knees, begging them to pardon her error in thus robbing them of their rest.
But the Duke of Vendôme was not content to know so little, and rising forthwith, he begged the old woman to say for whom she had taken them. This at first she was not willing to do; but at last, after he had sworn to her never to reveal it, she told him that there was a girl in the house with whom a prothonotary (2) was in love, and that she had long kept a watch on them, since it pleased her little to see her mistress trusting in a man who was working this shame towards her. She then left the Prince and Princess shut in as she had found them, and they laughed for a long while over their adventure. And, although they afterwards told the story they would never name any of the persons concerned.
2 The office of apostolic prothonotary was instituted byPope Clement I., there being at first twelve such officers,whose duty was to write the lives of the saints and otherapostolic records. Gradually their number so increased, thatin the fifteenth century the title of prothonotary had cometo be merely an honorary dignity, conferred as a matter ofcourse on doctors of theology of noble family, or otherwiseof note. In the role of Francis I.‘s household for 1522, wefind but one prothonotary mentioned, but in that for 1529there are twelve. More than one of them might have beencalledun letrado que no tenia muchas letras, as Brantômewrote of Thomas de Lescun, Prothonotary of Foix andafterwards Marshal of France. “In those days,” adds theauthor ofLes Grands Capitaines Français, “it was usualfor prothonotaries and even for those of good family not tohave much learning, but to enjoy themselves, hunt, make loveand seduce the wives of the poor gentlemen who were gone tothe wars.”—OEuvres complètes de Brantôme, 8vo edit., vol.ii. p. 144.—L. and Ed.
“You see, ladies, how the worthy dame, whilst thinking to do a fine deed of justice, made known to strange princes a matter of which the servants of the house had never heard.”
“I think I know,” said Parlamente, “in whose house it was, and who the prothonotary is; for he has governed many a lady’s house, and when he cannot win the mistress’s favour he never fails to have that of one of the maids. In other matters, however, he is an honourable and worthy man.”
“Why do you say ‘in other matters’?” said Hircan. “Tis for that very behaviour that I deem him so worthy a man.”
“I can see,” said Parlamente, “that you know the sickness and the sufferer, and that, if he needed excuse, you would not fail him as advocate. Yet I would not trust myself to a man who could not contrive his affairs without having them known to the serving-women.”
“And do you imagine,” said Nomerfide, “that men care whether such a matter be known if only they can compass their end? You may be sure that, even if none spoke of it but themselves, it would still of necessity be known.”
“They have no need,” said Hircan angrily, “to say all that they know.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, blushing, “they would not say it to their own advantage.”
“Judging from your words,” said Simontault, “it would seem that men delight in hearing evil spoken about women, and I am sure that you reckon me among men of that kind. I therefore greatly wish to speak well of one of your sex, in order that I may not be held a slanderer by all the rest.”
“I give you my place,” said Ennasuite, “praying you withal to control your natural disposition, so that you may acquit yourself worthily in our honour.”
Forthwith Simontault began—
“Tis no new thing, ladies, to hear of some virtuous act on your part which, methinks, should not be hidden but rather written in letters of gold, that it may serve women as an example, and give men cause for admiration at seeing in the weaker sex that from which weakness is prone to shrink. I am prompted, therefore, to relate something that I heard from Captain Robertval and divers of his company.”
154.jpg Tailpiece
155a. The Wife Reading to Her Husband on The Desert Island
155.jpg Page Image
A poor woman risked her own life to save that of herhusband, whom she forsook not until death.
The Captain Robertval aforesaid once made a voyage across the seas to the island of Canadas, (1) himself being chief in command by the appointment of the King, his master. And there, if the air of the country were good, he had resolved to dwell and to build towns and castles. With this work he made such a beginning as is known to all; and to people the country with Christians he took with him all kinds of artificers, among whom was a most wicked man, who betrayed his master and put him in danger of being captured by the natives. But God willed that his attempt should be discovered before any evil befell the Captain, who, seizing the wicked traitor, was minded to punish him as he deserved. And this he would have done but for the man’s wife, who had followed her husband through the perils of the deep and would not now leave him to die, but with many tears so wrought upon the Captain and all his company that, for pity of her and for the sake of the services she had done them, her request was granted. In consequence, husband and wife were left together on a small island in the sea, inhabited only by wild beasts, and were suffered to take with them such things as were needful.
1 Canada had been discovered by Cabot in 1497; and in 1535James Cartier sailed up the St. Lawrence and, takingpossession of the country in the name of Francis I., calledit La Nouvelle France. Seven years later a gentleman ofPicardy, named John Francis de La Roque, Lord of Robertval,accompanying Cartier, established a colony on the IsleRoyale, and subsequently built the fort of Charlebourg. Oneof his pilots, named Alphonse of Saintonge, meanwhilereconnoitred the coasts both of Canada and Labrador. Aboutthis time (1542) the incidents related in the above talemust have occurred.—L.
The poor folk, finding themselves all alone and surrounded by wild and cruel beasts, had no recourse but to God, who had ever been this poor woman’s steadfast hope; and, since she found all her consolation in Him, she carried the New Testament with her for safeguard, nourishment and consolation, and in it read unceasingly. Further, she laboured with her husband to make them a little dwelling as best they might, and when the lions (2) and other animals came near to devour them, the husband with his arquebuss and she with stones made so stout a defence that not only were the beasts afraid to approach, but often some were slain that were very good for food. And on this flesh and the herbs of the land, they lived for some time after their bread failed them.
2 This mention of lions on a small desert island in theCanadian seas would be rather perplexing did we not know howgreat at that time was the general ignorance on most mattersconnected with natural history. Possibly the allusion may beto thelion marin, as the French call the leonine seal.This, however, is anything but an aggressive animal.Curiously enough, Florimond de Rémond, the sixteenth centurywriter, speaks of a drawing of a “marine lion” given to him“by that most illustrious lady Margaret Queen of Navarre, towhom it had been presented by a Spanish gentleman, who wastaking a second copy of it to the Emperor Charles V., thenin Spain.”—Ed.
At last, however, the husband could no longer endure this nutriment, and by reason of the waters that they drank became so swollen that in a short while he died, and this without any service or consolation save from his wife, she being both his doctor and his confessor; and when he had joyously passed out of the desert into the heavenly country, the poor woman, left now in solitude, buried him in the earth as deeply as she was able. Nevertheless the beasts quickly knew of it, and came to eat the dead body; but the poor woman, firing with the arquebuss from her cabin, saved her husband’s flesh from finding such a grave.
Leading thus in regard to her body the life of a brute, and in regard to her soul the life of an angel, she passed her time in reading, meditations, prayers and orisons, having a glad and happy mind in a wasted and half-dead body. But He who never forsakes His own, and who manifests His power when others are in despair, did not suffer the virtue that he had put into this woman to be unknown by men, but willed that it should be made manifest to His own glory. He therefore brought things so to pass, that after some time, when one of the ships of the armament was passing by the island, those that were looking that way perceived some smoke, which reminded them of the persons who had been left there, and they resolved to go and see what God had done with them.
The poor woman, seeing the ship draw nigh, dragged herself to the shore, and there they found her on their arrival. After giving praise to God, she brought them to her poor cottage and showed them on what she had lived during her abode in that place. This would have seemed to them impossible of belief, but for their knowledge that God is as powerful to feed His servants in a desert as at the greatest banquet in the world. As the poor woman could not continue in such a spot, they took her with them straight to La Rochelle, where, their voyage ended, they arrived. And when they had made known to the inhabitants the faithfulness and endurance of this woman, she was very honourably received by all the ladies, who gladly sent their daughters to her to learn to read and write. In this honest calling she maintained herself for the rest of her life, having no other desire save to admonish every one to love and trust Our Lord, and setting forth as an example the great compassion that He had shown towards her.
“Now, ladies, you cannot say I do not praise the virtues which God has given you, and which show the more when possessed by one of lowly condition.”
“Why, we are not sorry,” said Oisille, “to hear you praise the mercies of Our Lord, for in truth all virtue comes from Him; but we must confess that man assists in the work of God as little as women. Neither can by heart or will do more than plant. God alone giveth the increase.”
“If you have studied Scripture,” said Saffredent, “you know that St. Paul says that Apollos planted and he himself watered; (3) but he does not speak of women as having set hand to the work of God.”
3 The text is just the contrary: “I have planted, Apolloswatered; but God gave the increase.”—ICorinthiansiii.6.—Ed.
“You would follow,” said Parlamente, “the opinion of those wicked men who take a passage of Scripture that is in their favour and leave one that is against them. If you had read St. Paul to the end, you would have found that he commends himself to the ladies, who greatly laboured with him in the work of the Gospel.”
“However that may be,” said Longarine, “the woman in the story is well worthy of praise both for the love she bore her husband, on whose behalf she risked her own life, and for the faith she had in God, who, as we see, did not forsake her.”
“I think,” said Ennasuite, “as far as the first is concerned, that there is no woman present but would do as much to save her husband’s life.”
“I think,” said Parlamente, “that some husbands are such brutes that the women who live with them should not find it strange to live among their fellows.”
Ennasuite, who took these words to herself, could not refrain from saying—
“Provided the beasts did not bite me, their company would be more pleasant to me than that of men, who are choleric and intolerable. But I abide by what I have said, that, if my husband were in a like danger, I should not leave him to die.”
“Beware,” said Nomerfide, “of loving too fondly, for excess of love will deceive both him and you. There is a medium in all things, and through lack of knowledge love often gives birth to hate.”
“Methinks,” said Simontault, “you have not carried your discourse so far without having an instance to confirm it. If, then, you know such a one, I give you my place that you may tell it to us.”
“Well,” said Nomerfide, “the tale shall, as is my wont, be a short and a merry one.”
161.jpg Tailpiece
163a. The Apothecary’s Wife Giving The Dose of Cantharides To Her Husband
163.jpg Page Image
An apothecary’s wife, finding that her husband made nogreat account of her, and wishing to be better loved by him,followed the advice that he had given to a “commère” (1) ofhis, whose sickness was of the same kind as her own; but sheprospered not so well as the other, and instead of lovereaped hate.1 Mr W. Kelly has pointed out (Bohn’sHeptameron, p. 395)that in France the godfather and godmother of a child arecalled in reference to each other compère and commère, termsimplying mutual relations of an extremely friendly kind. “Thesame usage exists in all Catholic countries,” adds Mr Kelly,“and one of the novels of theDecameronis founded on avery general opinion in Italy that an amorous connectionbetween acompadreand hiscommadrepartook almost ofthe nature of incest.”
In the town of Pau in Beam there was an apothecary whom men called Master Stephen. He had married a virtuous wife and a thrifty, with beauty enough to content him. But just as he was wont to taste different drugs, so did he also with women, that he might be the better able to speak of all kinds. His wife was greatly tormented by this, and at last lost all patience; for he made no account of her except by way of penance during Holy Week.
One day when the apothecary was in his shop, and his wife had hidden herself behind him to listen to what he might say, a woman, who was “commère” to the apothecary, and was stricken with the same sickness as his own wife, came in, and, sighing, said to him—
“Alas, good godfather, I am the most unhappy woman alive. I love my husband better than myself, and do nothing but think of how I may serve and obey him; but all my labour is wasted, for he prefers the wickedest, foulest, vilest woman in the town to me. So, godfather, if you know of any drug that will change his humour, prithee give it me, and, if I be well treated by him, I promise to reward you by all means in my power.”
The apothecary, to comfort her, said that he knew of a powder which, if she gave it to her husband with his broth or roast, after the fashion of Duke’s powder, (2) would induce him to entertain her in the best possible manner. The poor woman, wishing to behold this miracle, asked him what the powder was, and whether she could have some of it. He declared that there was nothing like powder of cantharides, of which he had a goodly store; and before they parted she made him prepare this powder, and took as much of it as was needful for her purpose. And afterwards she often thanked the apothecary, for her husband, who was strong and lusty, and did not take too much, was none the worse for it.
2 Boaistuau and Gruget call this preparationpoudre deDun, as enigmatical an appellation aspoudre de Duc. Asfor the specific supplied by the apothecary, the contextshows that this was the same aphrodisiac as the Marquis deSades put to such a detestable use at Marseilles in 1772,when, after fleeing from justice, he was formally sentencedto death, and broken, in effigy, upon the wheel. See P.Lacroix’sCuriosités de l’histoire de France, IIème Série,Paris, 1858.—Ed.
The apothecary’s wife heard all this talk, and thought within herself that she had no less need of the recipe than her husband’s “commère.” Observing, therefore, the place where her husband put the remainder of the powder, she resolved that she would use some of it when she found an opportunity; and this she did within three or four days. Her husband, who felt a coldness of the stomach, begged her to make him some good soup, but she replied that a roast with Duke’s powder would be better for him; whereupon he bade her go quickly and prepare it, and take cinnamon and sugar from the shop. This she did, not forgetting also to take the remainder of the powder given to the “commère,” without any heed to dose, weight or measure.
The husband ate the roast, and thought it very good. Before long, however, he felt its effects, and sought to soothe them with his wife, but this he found was impossible, for he felt all on fire, in such wise that he knew not which way to turn. He then told his wife that she had poisoned him, and demanded to know what she had put into the roast. She forthwith confessed the truth, telling him that she herself required the recipe quite as much as his “commère.” By reason of his evil plight, the poor apothecary could belabour her only with hard words; however, he drove her from his presence, and sent to beg the Queen of Navarre’s apothecary (3) to come and see him. This the Queen’s apothecary did, and whilst giving the other all the remedies proper for his cure (which in a short time was effected) he rebuked him very sharply for his folly in counselling another to use drugs that he was not willing to take himself, and declared that his wife had only done her duty, inasmuch as she had desired to be loved by her husband.