2 M. Paul Lacroix, who believes that the heroine of thistale is Margaret herself (she is described as telling itunder the name of Parlamente), is also of opinion that thegentleman referred to is the Baron de Malleville, a knightof Malta, who was killed at Beyrout during an expeditionagainst the Turks, and whose death was recounted in verse byClement Marot (OEuvres, 1731, vol. ii. p. 452-455).Margaret’s gentleman, however, is represented as beingmarried, whereas M. de Malleville, as a knight of Malta, wasnecessarily a bachelor. Marot, moreover, calls Malleville aParisian, whereas the gentleman in the tale belonged toNormandy (seepost, p. 136).—B. J. and L.
The old gentleman was all impatience to find his wife and tell her of what he had done. She was as anxious to make the journey as her husband, and on that account often spoke about it to the Captain, who, paying more attention to her person than her words, fell so deeply in love with her, that when speaking to her of the voyages he had made, he often confused the port of Marseilles with the Archipelago, and said “horse” when he meant to say “ship,” like one distracted and bereft of sense. Her character, however, was such that he durst not give any token of the truth, and concealment kindled such fires in his heart that he often fell sick, when the lady showed as much solicitude for him as for the cross and guide of her road, (3) sending to inquire after him so often that the anxiety she showed cured him without the aid of any other medicine.
3 This may simply be an allusion to wayside crosses whichserve to guide travellers on their road. M. de Montaiglonpoints out, however, that in the alphabets used for teachingchildren in the olden time, the letter A was always precededby a cross, and that the child, in reciting, invariablybegan: “The cross of God, A, B, C, D,” &c. In a like way, across figured at the beginning of the guide-books of thetime, as a symbol inviting the traveller to pray, andreminding him upon whom he should rely amid the perils ofhis journey. The best known French guide-book of thesixteenth century is Charles Estienne’sGuide des Cheminsde France.—M. and Ed.
Several persons who knew that this Captain had been more renowned for valour and jollity than for piety, were amazed that he should have become so intimate with this lady, and seeing that he had changed in every respect, and frequented churches, sermons, and confessions, they suspected that this was only in order to win the lady’s favour, and could not refrain from hinting as much to him.
The Captain feared that if the lady should hear any such talk he would be banished from her presence, and accordingly he told her husband and herself that he was on the point of being despatched on his journey by the King, and had much to tell them, but that for the sake of greater secrecy he did not desire to speak to them in the presence of others, for which reason he begged them to send for him when they had both retired for the night. The gentleman deemed this to be good advice, and did not fail to go to bed early every evening, and to make his wife also undress. When all their servants had left them, they used to send for the Captain, and talk with him about the journey to Jerusalem, in the midst of which the old gentleman would oft-times fall asleep with his mind full of pious thoughts. When the Captain saw the old gentleman asleep in bed, and found himself on a chair near her whom he deemed the fairest and noblest woman in the world, his heart was so rent between his desires and his dread of speaking that he often lost the power of speech. In order that she might not perceive this, he would force himself to talk of the holy places of Jerusalem where there were such signs of the great love that Jesus Christ bore us; and he would speak of this love, using it as a cloak for his own, and looking at the lady with sighs and tears which she never understood. By reason of his devout countenance she indeed believed him to be a very holy man, and begged of him to tell her what his life had been, and how he had come to love God in that way.
He told her that he was a poor gentleman, who, to arrive at riches and honour, had disregarded his conscience in marrying a woman who was too close akin to him, and this on account of the wealth she possessed, albeit she was ugly and old, and he loved her not; and when he had drawn all her money from her, he had gone to seek his fortune at sea, and had so prospered by his toil, that he had now come to an honourable estate. But since he had made his hearer’s acquaintance, she, by reason of her pious converse and good example, had changed all his manner of life, and should he return from his present enterprise he was wholly resolved to take her husband and herself to Jerusalem, that he might thereby partly atone for his grievous sins which he had now put from him; save that he had not yet made reparation to his wife, with whom, however, he hoped that he might soon be reconciled.
The lady was well pleased with this discourse, and especially rejoiced at having drawn such a man to the love and fear of God. And thus, until the Captain departed from the Court, their long conversations together were continued every evening without his ever venturing to declare himself. However, he made the lady a present of a crucifix of Our Lady of Pity, (4) beseeching her to think of him whenever she looked upon it.
4 “Our Lady of Pity” is the designation usually applied tothe Virgin when she is shown seated with the corpse ofChrist on her knees. Michael Angelo’s famous group at St.Peter’s is commonly known by this name. In the presentinstance, however, Queen Margaret undoubtedly refers to acrucifix showing the Virgin at the foot of the Cross,contemplating her son’s sufferings. Such crucifixes wereformerly not uncommon.—M.
The hour of his departure arrived, and when he had taken leave of the husband, who was falling asleep, and came to bid his lady farewell, he beheld tears standing in her eyes by reason of the honourable affection which she entertained for him. The sight of these rendered his passion for her so unendurable that, not daring to say anything concerning it, he almost fainted, and broke out into an exceeding sweat, so that he seemed to weep not only with his eyes, but with his entire body. And thus he departed without speaking, leaving the lady in great astonishment, for she had never before seen such tokens of regret. Nevertheless she did not change in her good opinion of him, and followed him with her prayers.
After a month had gone by, however, as the lady was returning to her house, she met a gentleman who handed her a letter from the Captain, and begged her to read it in private.
He told her how he had seen the Captain embark, fully resolved to accomplish whatever might be pleasing to the King and of advantage to Christianity. For his own part, the gentleman added, he was straightway going back to Marseilles to set the Captain’s affairs in order.
The lady withdrew to a window by herself, and opening the letter, found it to consist of two sheets of paper, covered on either side with writing which formed the following epistle:—
“Concealment long and silence have, alas!Brought me all comfortless to such a pass,That now, perforce, I must, to ease my grief,Either speak out, or seek in death relief.Wherefore the tale I long have left untoldI now, in lonely friendlessness grown bold,Send unto thee, for I must strive to sayMy love, or else prepare myself to slay.And though my eyes no longer may beholdThe sweet, who in her hand my life doth hold,Whose glance sufficed to make my heart rejoice,The while my ear did listen to her voice,—These words at least shall meet her beauteous eyes,And tell her all the plaintive, clamorous criesPent in my heart, to which I must give breath,Since longer silence could but bring me death.And yet, at first, I was in truth full fainTo blot the words I’d written out again,Fearing, forsooth, I might offend thine earWith foolish phrases which, when thou wast near,I dared not utter; and ‘Indeed,’ said I,‘Far better pine in silence, aye, and die,Than save myself by bringing her annoyFor whose sweet sake grim death itself were joy.’And yet, thought I, my death some pain might giveTo her for whom I would be strong, and live:For have I not, fair lady, promised plain,My journey ended, to return againAnd guide thee and thy spouse to where he nowDoth yearn to call on God from Sion’s brow?And none would lead thee thither should I die.If I were dead, methinks I see thee sighIn sore distress, for then thou couldst not startUpon that journey, dear unto thy heart.So I will live, and, in a little space,Return to lead thee to the sacred place.Aye, I will live, though death a boon would beOnly to be refused for sake of thee.But if I live, I needs must straight removeThe burden from my heart, and speak my love,That love more loyal, tender, deep, and true,Than, ever yet, the fondest lover knew.And now, bold words about to wing your flight,What will ye say when ye have reached her sight?Declare her all the love that fills my heart?Too weak ye are to tell its thousandth part!Can ye at least not say that her clear eyesHave torn my hapless heart forth in such wise,That like a hollow tree I pine and witherUnless hers give me back some life and vigour?Ye feeble words! ye cannot even tellHow easily her eyes a heart compel;Nor can ye praise her speech in language fit,So weak and dull ye are, so void of wit.Yet there are some things I would have you name—How mute and foolish I oft time becameWhen all her grace and virtue I beheld;How from my ‘raptured eyes tears slowly welledThe tears of hopeless love; how my tongue strayedFrom fond and wooing speech, so sore afraid,That all my discourse was of time and tide,And of the stars which up in Heav’n abide.O words, alas! ye lack the skill to tellThe dire confusion that upon me fell,Whilst love thus wracked me; nor can ye discloseMy love’s immensity, its pains and woes.Yet, though, for all, your powers be too weak,Perchance, some little, ye are fit to speak—Say to her thus: “Twas fear lest thou shouldst chideThat drove me, e’en so long, my love to hide,And yet, forsooth, it might have openlyBeen told to God in Heaven, as unto thee,Based as it is upon thy virtue—thoughtThat to my torments frequent balm hath brought,For who, indeed, could ever deem it sinTo seek the owner of all worth to win?Deserving rather of our blame were heWho having seen thee undisturbed could be.’None such was I, for, straightway stricken sore,My heart bowed low to Love, the conqueror.And ah! no false and fleeting love is mine,Such as for painted beauty feigns to pine;Nor doth my passion, although deep and strong,Seek its own wicked pleasure in thy wrong.Nay; on this journey I would rather dieThan know that thou hadst fallen, and that IHad wrought thy shame and foully brought to harmThe virtue which thy heart wraps round thy form.‘Tis thy perfection that I love in thee,Nought that might lessen it could ever beDesire of mine—indeed, the nobler thou,The greater were the love I to thee vow.I do not seek an ardent flame to quenchIn lustful dalliance with some merry wench,Pure is my heart, ‘neath reason’s calm controlSet on a lady of such lofty soul,That neither God above nor angel bright,But seeing her, would echo my delight.And if of thee I may not be beloved,What matter, shouldst thou deem that I have provedThe truest lover that did ever live?And this I know thou wilt, one day, believe,For time, in rolling by, shall show to theeNo change in my heart’s faith and loyalty.And though for this thou mayst make no return,Yet pleased am I with love for thee to burn,And seek no recompense, pursue no end,Save, that to thee, I meekly recommendMy soul and body, which I here consignIn sacrifice to Love’s consuming shrine.If then in safety I sail back the mainTo thee, still artless, I’ll return again;And if I die, then there will die with meA lover such as none again shall see.So Ocean now doth carry far awayThe truest lover seen for many a day;His body ‘tis that journeys o’er the wave,But not his heart, for that is now thy slave,And from thy side can never wrested be,Nor of its own accord return to me.Ah! could I with me o’er the treach’rous brineTake aught of that pure, guileless heart of thine,No doubt should I then feel of victory,Whereof the glory would belong to thee.But now, whatever fortune may befall,I’ve cast the die; and having told thee all,Abide thereby, and vow my constancy—Emblem of which, herein, a diamond see,By whose great firmness and whose pure glowThe strength and pureness of my love thou’lt know.Let it, I pray, thy fair white finger press,And thou wilt deal me more than happiness.And, diamond, speak and say: ‘To thee I comeFrom thy fond lover, who afar doth roam,And strives by dint of glorious deeds to riseTo the high level of the good and wise,Hoping some day that haven to attain,Where thy sweet favours shall reward his pain.”
The lady read the letter through, and was the more astonished at the Captain’s passion as she had never before suspected it. She looked at the cutting of the diamond, which was a large and beautiful one, set in a ring of black enamel, and she was in great doubt as to what she ought to do with it. After pondering upon the matter throughout the night, she was glad to find that since there was no messenger, she had no occasion to send any answer to the Captain, who, she reflected, was being sufficiently tried by those matters of the King, his master, which he had in hand, without being angered by the unfavourable reply which she was resolved to make to him, though she delayed it until his return. However, she found herself greatly perplexed with regard to the diamond, for she had never been wont to adorn herself at the expense of any but her husband. For this reason, being a woman of excellent understanding, she determined to draw from the ring some profit to the Captain’s conscience. She therefore despatched one of her servants to the Captain’s wife with the following letter, which was written as though it came from a nun of Tarascon:—
“MADAM,—Your husband passed this way but a short time before he embarked, and after he had confessed himself and received his Creator like a good Christian, he spoke to me of something which he had upon his conscience, namely, his sorrow at not having loved you as he should have done. And on departing, he prayed and besought me to send you this letter, with the diamond which goes with it, and which he begs of you to keep for his sake, assuring you that if God bring him back again in health and strength, you shall be better treated than ever woman was before. And this stone of steadfastness shall be the pledge thereof.
“I beg you to remember him in your prayers; in mine he will have a place as long as I live.”
This letter, being finished and signed with the name of a nun, was sent by the lady to the Captain’s wife. And as may be readily believed, when the excellent old woman saw the letter and the ring, she wept for joy and sorrow at being loved and esteemed by her good husband when she could no longer see him. She kissed the ring a thousand times and more, watering it with her tears, and blessing God for having restored her husband’s affection to her at the end of her days, when she had long looked upon it as lost. Nor did she fail to thank the nun who had given her so much happiness, but sent her the fairest reply that she could devise. This the messenger brought back with all speed to his mistress, who could not read it, nor listen to what her servant told her, without much laughter. And so pleased was she at having got rid of the diamond in so profitable a fashion as to bring about a reconciliation between the husband and wife, that she was as happy as though she had gained a kingdom.
A short time afterwards tidings came of the defeat and death of the poor Captain, and of how he had been abandoned by those who ought to have succoured him, and how his enterprise had been revealed by the Rhodians who should have kept it secret, so that he and all who landed with him, to the number of eighty, had been slain, among them being a gentleman named John, and a Turk to whom the lady of my story had stood godmother, both of them having been given by her to the Captain that he might take them with him on his journey. The first named of these had died beside the Captain, whilst the Turk, wounded by arrows in fifteen places, had saved himself by swimming to the French ships.
It was through him alone that the truth of the whole affair became known. A certain gentleman whom the poor Captain had taken to be his friend and comrade, and whose interests he had advanced with the King and the highest nobles of France, had, it appeared, stood out to sea with his ships as soon as the Captain landed; and the Captain, finding that his expedition had been betrayed, and that four thousand Turks were at hand, had thereupon endeavoured to retreat, as was his duty. But the gentleman in whom he put such great trust perceived that his friend’s death would leave the sole command and profit of that great armament to himself, and accordingly pointed out to the officers that it would not be right to risk the King’s vessels or the lives of the many brave men on board them in order to save less than a hundred persons, an opinion which was shared by all those of the officers that possessed but little courage.
So the Captain, finding that the more he called to the ships the farther they drew away from his assistance, faced round at last upon the Turks; and, albeit he was up to his knees in sand, he did such deeds of arms and valour that it seemed as though he alone would defeat all his enemies, an issue which his traitorous comrade feared far more than he desired it.
But at last, in spite of all that he could do, the Captain received so many wounds from the arrows of those who durst not approach within bowshot, that he began to lose all his blood, whereupon the Turks, perceiving the weakness of these true Christians, charged upon them furiously with their scimitars; but the Christians, so long as God gave them strength and life, defended themselves to the bitter end.
Then the Captain called to the gentleman named John, whom his lady love had given him, and to the Turk as well, and thrusting the point of his sword into the ground, fell upon his knees beside it, and embraced and kissed the cross, (5) saying—
“Lord, receive into Thy hands the soul of one who has not spared his life to exalt Thy name.”
5 As is well known, before swords were made with shell andstool hilts, the two guards combined with the handle andblade formed a cross. Bayard, when dying, raised his swordto gaze upon this cross, and numerous instances, similar tothat mentioned above by Queen Margaret, may be found in theoldChansons de Geste.—M.
The gentleman called John, seeing that his master’s life was ebbing away as he uttered these words, thought to aid him, and took him into his arms, together with the sword which he was holding. But a Turk who was behind them cut through both his thighs, whereupon he cried out, “Come, Captain, let us away to Paradise to see Him for whose sake we die,” and in this wise he shared the poor Captain’s death even as he had shared his life.
The Turk, seeing that he could be of no service to either of them, and being himself wounded by arrows in fifteen places, made off towards the ships, and requested to be taken on board. But although of all the eighty he was the only one who had escaped, the Captain’s traitorous comrade refused his prayer. Nevertheless, being an exceeding good swimmer, he threw himself into the sea, and exerted himself so well that he was at last received on board a small vessel, where in a short time he was cured of his wounds. And it was by means of this poor foreigner that the truth became fully known, to the honour of the Captain and the shame of his comrade, whom the King and all the honourable people who heard the tidings deemed guilty of such wickedness toward God and man that there was no death howsoever cruel which he did not deserve. But when he returned he told so many lies, and gave so many gifts, that not only did he escape punishment, but even received the office of the man whose unworthy servant he had been.
When the pitiful tidings reached the Court, the Lady-Regent, who held the Captain in high esteem, mourned for him exceedingly, as did the King and all the honourable people who had known him. And when the lady whom he had loved the best heard of his strange, sad, and Christian death, she changed the chiding she had resolved to give him into tears and lamentations, in which her husband kept her company, all hopes of their journey to Jerusalem being now frustrated.
I must not forget to say that on the very day when the two gentlemen were killed, a damsel in the lady’s service, who loved the gentleman called John better than herself, came and told her mistress that she had seen her lover ir a dream; he had appeared to her clad in white, and had bidden her farewell, telling her that he was going to Paradise with his Captain. And when the damsel heard that her dream had come true, she made such lamentation that her mistress had enough to do to comfort her. (6)
6 The Queen of Navarre was a firm believer in the truth andpremonitory character of dreams, and according to herbiographers she, herself, had several singular ones, two ofwhich are referred to in the Memoir prefixed to the presentwork (vol. i. pp. lxxxiii. and Ixxxvii.). In some of herletters, moreover, she relates that Francis I., when underthe walls of Pavia, on three successive nights beheld hislittle daughter Charlotte (then dying at Lyons) appear tohim in a dream, and on each occasion repeat the words,“Farewell, my King, I am going to Paradise.”—Ed.
A short time afterwards the Court journeyed into Normandy, to which province the Captain had belonged. His wife was not remiss in coming to pay homage to the Lady-Regent, and in order that she might be presented to her, she had recourse to the same lady whom her husband had so dearly loved.
And while they were waiting in a church for the appointed hour, she began bewailing and praising her husband, saying among other things to the lady—
“Alas, madam! my misfortune is the greatest that ever befell a woman, for just when he was loving me more than he had ever done, God took him from me.”
So saying, and with many tears, she showed the ring which she wore on her finger as a token of her husband’s perfect love, whereat the other lady, finding that her deception had resulted in such a happy issue, was, despite her sorrow for the Captain’s death, so moved to laughter, that she would not present the widow to the Regent, but committed her to the charge of another lady, and withdrew into a side chapel, where she satisfied her inclination to laugh.
“I think, ladies, that those who receive such gifts ought to seek to use them to as good a purpose as did this worthy lady. They would find that benefactions bring joy to those who bestow them. And we must not charge this lady with deceit, but esteem her good sense which turned to good that which in itself was worthless.”
“Do you mean to say,” said Nomerfide, “that a fine diamond, costing two hundred crowns, is worthless? I can assure you that if it had fallen into my hands, neither his wife nor his relations would have seen aught of it. Nothing is more wholly one’s own than a gift. The gentleman was dead, no one knew anything about the matter, and she might well have spared the poor old woman so much sorrow.”
“By my word,” said Hircan, “you are right. There are women who, to make themselves appear of better heart than others, do things that are clearly contrary to their notions, for we all know that women are the most avaricious of beings, yet their vanity often surpasses their avarice, and constrains their hearts to actions that they would rather not perform. My belief is that the lady who gave the diamond away in this fashion was unworthy to wear it.”
“Softly, softly,” said Oisille; “I believe I know who she is, and I therefore beg that you will not condemn her unheard.”
“Madam,” said Hircan, “I do not condemn her at all; but if the gentleman was as virtuous as you say, it were an honour to have such a lover, and to wear his ring; but perhaps some one less worthy of being loved than he held her so fast by the finger that the ring could not be put on.”
“Truly,” said Ennasuite, “she might well have kept it, seeing that no one knew anything about it.”
“What!” said Geburon; “are all things lawful to those who love, provided no one knows anything about them?”
“By my word,” said Saffredent, “the only misdeed that I have ever seen punished is foolishness. There is never a murderer, robber, or adulterer condemned by the courts or blamed by his fellows, if only he be as cunning as he is wicked. Oft-time, however, a bad man’s wickedness so blinds him that he becomes a fool; and thus, as I have just said, it is the foolish only that are punished, not the vicious.”
“You may say what you please,” said Oisille, “only God can judge the lady’s heart; but for my part, I think that her action was a very honourable and virtuous one. (7) However, to put an end to the debate, I pray you, Parlamente, to give some one your vote.”
7 In our opinion this sentence disposes of Miss MaryRobinson’s supposition (The Fortunate Lovers, London,1887, p. 159) that Oisille (i.e., Louise of Savoy) is thereal heroine of this tale. Queen Margaret would hardly haverepresented her commending her own action. If any one of thenarrators of theHeptameronbe the heroine of the story,the presumptions are in favour of Longarine (La Dame deLonray), Margaret’s bosom friend, whose silence during theafter-converse is significant.—Ed.
“I give it willingly,” she said, “to Simontault, for after two such mournful tales we must have one that will not make us weep.”
“I thank you,” said Simontault. “In giving me your vote you have all but told me that I am a jester. It is a name that is extremely distasteful to me, and in revenge I will show you that there are women who with certain persons, or for a certain time, make a great pretence of being chaste, but the end shows them in their real colours, as you will see by this true story.”
140.jpg Tailpiece
141a.jpg Bonnivet and the Lady of Milan
141.jpg Page Image
The Lord of Bonnivet, desiring to revenge himself upon aMilanese lady for her cruelty, made the acquaintance of anItalian gentleman whom she loved, but to whom she had nevergranted anything save fair words and assurances ofaffection. To accomplish his purpose he gave this gentlemansuch good advice that the lady granted him what he had solong sought, and this the gentleman made known to Bonnivet,who, having cut both hair and beard, and dressed himself inclothes like those of the other, went at midnight and puthis vengeance into execution. Then the lady, having learntfrom him the plan that he had devised to win her, promisedto desist from loving those of her own nation, and to holdfast to him.
At the time when the Grand-Master of Chaumont was Governor of the Duchy of Milan, (1) there lived there a gentleman called the Lord of Bonnivet, who by reason of his merits was afterwards made Admiral of France. Being greatly liked by the Grand-Master and every one else on account of the qualities he possessed, he was a welcome guest at the banquets where the ladies of Milan assembled, and was regarded by them with more favour than ever fell to a Frenchman’s lot, either before or since; and this as much on account of his handsome countenance, grace of manner, and pleasant converse, as by reason of the renown which he had gained among all as being one of the most skilful and valorous soldiers of his time. (2)
1 M. de Lincy is of opinion that the incidents recorded inthis story took place between 1501 and 1503; but accordingto M. Lacroix, the Grand-Master of Chaumont did not becomeGovernor of the Milanese till 1506. This personage, to whomQueen Margaret frequently alludes in her tales, was Charlesd’Amboise, nephew of the famous Cardinal d’Amboise, ministerto Louis XII. In turn admiral and marshal, Governor ofParis, and Grand-Master, in France, of the Order of St. Johnof Jerusalem, he figured prominently in the Italian wars ofthe time, and notably at the battle of Aignadel. In 1510 hecommanded the troops which fought on behalf of the Duke ofFerrara against the Emperor and Pope Julius II., and thelatter having excommunicated him for bearing arms againstthe Holy See, his mind is said to have become unhinged. Hedied at Correggio in February 1511, when only thirty-eightyears of age, some biographers asserting that he waspoisoned, whilst others contend that he fell from a bridgeduring a military expedition. Whilst on his death-bed, hesent messengers to the Pope, begging that the decree ofexcommunication against him might be annulled, but beforethe Papal absolution arrived he had expired. The name ofChaumont, by which he is generally known, is that of anestate he possessed, between Blois and Amboise, on theLoire. The reputation he enjoyed of being one of thehandsomest men of his time was well deserved, if one mayjudge by a painting at the Louvre which is said to be hisportrait. This picture, long ascribed to Leonardo da Vinci,and supposed to represent Charles VIII. of France, has beenidentified as the work of Andreas Solario, who executednumerous paintings for Cardinal d’Amboise at the famouschâteau of Gaillon.—L. M. and Eu.2 Some particulars concerning William Gouffier, Lord ofBonnivet, have been given in vol. i. (Tale IV. n. 3). Itmay here be mentioned that the domain whence he derived thename by which he is generally known was in the neighbourhoodof Poitiers, around the village of Vendeuvre, where he builthimself a vast château, destroyed at the close of theeighteenth century. Some fragments of the sculptured workadorning it, remarkable for their elegance of design anddelicacy of workmanship, are in the Poitiers Museum. It isnot unlikely that the incidents related in Tale IV. occurredat this château; or else at that of Oiron, another domain ofthe Gouffiers, between Loudun and Bressuire. In the chapelof Oiron were buried Bonnivet, his mother, his brotherArtus, and his nephew Claud. Their tombs, large marblemausoleums of Italian workmanship, surmounted by recumbentstatues, were opened and mutilated by the Huguenots in 1568,when the bones they contained were scattered to the winds.Bon-nivet’s statue is probably the most damaged of the four.The château of Oiron, with its marble staircases, quaintfrescoes, sculptured medallions, &c, testifies to the greatwealth possessed by the Gouffier family, and justifies thecynical motto assumed by Bonnivet’s nephew: “Others havebeaten the bushes, but we have the birds.”—Ed.
One day during the carnival, when he was among the maskers, he danced with one of the most beautiful and bravely attired ladies to be found in the whole city; and whenever a pause occurred in the music of the hautboys, he did not fail to address her with love speeches, in which he excelled all others. But she (3) having no favourable reply to give him, suddenly checked his discourse by assuring him that she neither loved nor ever would love any man but her husband, and that he must by no means expect that she would listen to him.
3 This lady may perhaps be the “Sennora Clerice” (Clarissa)of whom Brantôme writes as follows in hisCapitainesFrançois:—“It was Bonnivet alone who advised King Francisto cross the mountains and follow M. de Bourbon, and in thishe had less his master’s advantage and service at heart thanhis desire to return and see a great and most beautiful ladyof Milan, whom he had made his mistress some yearspreviously.... It is said that this was the ‘SennoraClerice,’ then accounted one of the most beautiful ladies ofItaly.... A great lady of the time, from whom I heard thisstory, told me that he, Bonnivet, had commended this ladyClerice to the King so highly as to make him desirous ofseeing and winning her; and this was the principal cause ofthis expedition of the King’s.”—Lalanne’sOEuvres deBrantôme, vol. ii. p. 167-8.—L.
The gentleman, however, would not take this answer for a refusal, and continued to press his suit with great energy until mid-Lent. But he found her still firm in her declaration that she would love neither himself nor another, which he could not believe, however, seeing how ill-favoured was her husband, and how great her own beauty. Convinced that she was practising dissimulation, he resolved, on his own side, to have recourse to deception, and accordingly he ceased to urge his suit, and inquired so closely concerning her manner of life that he discovered she was in love with a most discreet and honourable Italian gentleman.
Little by little the Lord of Bonnivet insinuated himself into the friendship of this gentleman, and did so with so much discretion and skill, that the other remained ignorant of his motive, and became so much attached to him that, after the lady of his heart, there was no one in the world whom he loved more. In order that he might pluck his secret from his breast, the Lord of Bonnivet pretended to tell him his own, declaring that he loved a certain lady to whom he had in truth never given a thought, and begging that he would keep the matter secret, and that they might have but one heart and one mind together. Wishing to show in return a like affection, the poor Italian gentleman thereupon proceeded to disclose at length the love that he bore the lady on whom Bonnivet wished to be revenged; and after this they would meet somewhere once every day in order to recount the favours that had befallen them during the past four and twenty hours; with this difference, however, that one lied, and the other spoke the truth. And the Italian confessed that he had loved this lady for three years, but had never obtained anything of her save fair words and the assurance of her love.
Bonnivet then gave him all the advice that he could to enable him to attain his end, and to such good purpose that in a few days the lady consented to grant all that was sought of her. It only remained to devise a plan for their meeting, and through the counsels of Bonnivet this was soon accomplished. And so one day before supper the Italian said to him—
“I am more beholden to you, sir, than to any other man living, for, thanks to your good advice, I expect to obtain to-night that which I have coveted so many years.”
“I pray you, my friend,” thereupon said Bonnivet, “tell me the manner of your undertaking, so that if there be any risk in it, or craft required, I may serve you in all friendship.”
The Italian gentleman then began to tell him that the lady had devised a means of having the principal door of the house left open that night, availing herself as a pretext of the illness of one of her brothers for whose requirements it was necessary to send into the town at all hours. He might enter the courtyard, but he was to be careful not to go up by the principal staircase. Instead of this he was to take a small flight on his right hand, and enter the first gallery he came to, into which the rooms of the lady’s father-in-law and brothers-in-law opened; and he was to choose the third door from the head of the stairs, and if on trying it gently he found that it was locked, he was to go away again, for in that case he might be sure that her husband had returned, though not expected back for two days. If, however, he found that the door was open, he was to enter softly, and boldly bolt it behind him, for in that case there would be none but herself in the room. And above all, he was to get himself felt shoes, in order that he might make no noise, and he was to be careful not to come earlier than two hours after midnight, for her brothers-in-law, who were fond of play, never went to bed until after one of the clock.
“Go, my friend,” replied Bonnivet, “and may God be with you and preserve you from mischief. If my company can be of any service to you, I am wholly at your disposal.”
The Italian gentleman thanked him warmly, but said that in an affair of this nature he could not be too much alone; and thereupon he went away to set about his preparations.
Bonnivet, on his part, did not go to sleep, for he saw that the time had come for revenging himself upon his cruel love. Going home betimes, he had his beard trimmed to the same length and breadth as the Italian’s, and also had his hair cut, so that, on touching him, no difference between himself and his rival might be perceived. Nor did he forget the felt shoes, nor garments such as the Italian was wont to wear. Being greatly liked by the lady’s father-in-law, he was not afraid to go to the house at an early hour, for he made up his mind that if he were perceived, he would go straight to the chamber of the old gentleman, with whom he had some business on hand.
About midnight he entered the lady’s house, and although there were a good many persons going to and fro, he passed them unnoticed and thus reached the gallery. Trying the first two doors, he found them shut; the third, however, was not, and he softly pushed it open. And having thus entered the lady’s room, he immediately bolted the door behind him. He found that the whole chamber was hung with white linen, the floor and ceiling also being covered with the same; and there was a bed draped with cloth so fine and soft and so handsomely embroidered in white, that nothing better were possible. And in the bed lay the lady alone, wearing her cap and night-gown, and covered with pearls and gems. This, before he was himself perceived by her, he was able to see by peeping round the curtain; for there was a large wax candle burning, which made the room as bright as day. And fearful lest he should be recognised by her, he first of all put out the light. Then he undressed himself and got into bed beside her.
The lady, taking him to be the Italian who had so long loved her, gave him the best possible reception; but he, not forgetting that he was there in another’s stead, was careful not to say a single word. His only thought was to execute his vengeance at the cost of her honour and chastity without being beholden to her for any boon. And although this was contrary to her intention, the lady was so well pleased with this vengeance that she deemed him rewarded for all she thought he had endured. At last it struck one of the clock, and it was time to say good-bye. Then, in the lowest tones he could employ, he asked her if she were as well pleased with him as he was with her. She, believing him to be her lover, said that she was not merely pleased but amazed at the greatness of his love, which had kept him an hour without answering her.
Then he began to laugh aloud, and said to her—
“Now, madam, will you refuse me another time, as you have hitherto been wont to do?”
The lady, recognising him by his speech and laughter, was in such despair with grief and shame, that she called him villain, traitor, and deceiver a thousand times over, and tried to throw herself out of bed to search for a knife in order to kill herself, since she was so unfortunate as to have lost her honour through a man whom she did not love, and who to be revenged on her might publish the matter to the whole world.
But he held her fast in his arms, and in fair soft words declared that he wouldloveher more than her lover, and would so carefully conceal all that affected her honour that she should never be brought to reproach. This the poor foolish thing believed, and on hearing from him the plan that he had devised and the pains that he had taken to win her, she swore to him that she would love him better than the other, who had not been able to keep her secret. She now knew, said she, how false was the repute in which the French were held; they were more sensible, persevering, and discreet than the Italians; wherefore she would henceforward lay aside the erroneous opinions of her nation and hold fast to him. But she earnestly entreated him not to show himself for some time at any entertainment or in any place where she might be unless he were masked; for she was sure she should feel so much ashamed that her countenance would betray her to every one.
This he promised to do, and he then begged that she would give her lover a good welcome when he came at two o’clock, getting rid of him afterwards by degrees. This she was very loth to do, and but for the love she bore to Bonnivet would on no account have consented. However, when bidding her farewell, he gave her so much cause for satisfaction that she would fain have had him stay with her some time longer.
Having risen and donned his garments again, he departed, leaving the door of the room slightly open, as he had found it. And as it was now nearly two o’clock, and he was afraid of meeting the Italian gentleman, he withdrew to the top of the staircase, whence he not long afterwards saw the other pass by and enter the lady’s room.
For his own part, he then betook himself home to rest, in such wise that at nine of the clock on the following morning he was still in bed. While he was rising, there arrived the Italian gentleman, who did not fail to recount his fortune, which had not been so great as he had hoped; for on entering the lady’s chamber, said he, he had found her out of bed, wearing her dressing-gown, and in a high fever, with her pulse beating quick and her countenance aflame, and a perspiration beginning to break out upon her. She had therefore begged him to go away forthwith, for fearing a mishap, she had not ventured to summon her women, and was in consequence so ill that she had more need to think of death than of love, and to be told of God than of Cupid. She was distressed, she added, that he should have run such risk for her sake, since she was wholly unable to grant what he sought in a world she was so soon to leave. He had felt so astonished and unhappy on hearing this that all his fire and joy had been changed to ice and sadness, and he had immediately gone away. However, he had sent at daybreak to inquire about her, and had heard that she was indeed very ill. While recounting his griefs he wept so piteously that it seemed as though his soul must melt away in his tears.
Bonnivet, who was as much inclined to laugh as the other was to weep, comforted him as well as he could, telling him that affections of long duration always had a difficult beginning, and that Love was causing him this delay only that he might afterwards have the greater joy. And so the two gentlemen parted. The lady remained in bed for some days, and on regaining her health dismissed her first suitor, alleging as her reason the fear of death that had beset her and the prickings of her conscience. But she held fast to my lord Bonnivet, whose love, as is usual, lasted no longer than the field flowers bloom.
“I think, ladies, that the gentleman’s craftiness was a match for the hypocrisy of the lady, who, after playing the prude so long, showed herself such a wanton in the end.”
“You may say what you please about women,” said Ennasuite, “but the gentleman played an evil trick. Is it allowable that if a lady loves one man, another may obtain her by craft?”
“You may be sure,” said Geburon, “that when such mares are for sale they are of necessity carried off by the last and highest bidder. Do not imagine that wooers take such great pains for the ladies’ sakes. It is for their own sakes and their own pleasure.”
“By my word,” said Longarine, “I believe you; for, truth to tell, all the lovers that I have ever had have always begun their speeches by talking about me, declaring that they cherished my life, welfare, and honour; but in the end they only thought of themselves, caring for nought but their own pleasure and vanity. The best plan, therefore, is to dismiss them as soon as the first portion of their discourse is ended; for when they come to the second, there is not so much credit in refusing them, seeing that vice when recognised must needs be rejected.”
“So as soon as a man opens his mouth,” said Ennasuite, “we ought to refuse him, without knowing what he is going to say?”
“Nay,” replied Parlamente, “my friend does not mean that. We know that at first a woman should never appear to understand what the man desires, or even to believe him when he has declared what it is; but when he comes to strong protestations, I think it were better for ladies to leave him on the road rather than continue to the end of the journey with him.”
“That may be,” said Nomerfide; “but are we to believe that they love us for evil? Is it not a sin to judge our neighbours?”
“You may believe what you please,” said Oisille; “but there is so much cause for fearing it to be true, that as soon as you perceive the faintest spark, you should flee from this fire, lest it should burn up your heart before you even know it.”
“Truly,” said Hircan, “the laws you lay down are over harsh. If women, whom gentleness beseems so well, were minded to prove as rigorous as you would have them be, we men, on our part, would exchange our gentle entreaties for craft and force.”
“In my opinion,” said Simontault, “the best advice is that each should follow his natural bent. Whether he love or not, let him do so without dissimulation.”
“Would to God,” said Saffredent, “that such a rule would bring as much honour as it would give pleasure.”
Dagoucin, however, could not refrain from saying—
“Those who would rather die than make their desire known could not comply with your law.”
“Die!” thereupon said Hircan; “the good knight has yet to be born that would die for the publishing of such a matter. But let us cease talking of what is impossible, and see to whom Simontault will give his vote.”
“I give it,” said Simontault, “to Longarine, for I observed her just now talking to herself. I imagine that she was recalling some excellent matter, and she is not wont to conceal the truth, whether it be against man or woman.”
“Since you deem me so truthful,” replied Longarine, “I will tell you a tale which, though it be not so much to the praise of women as I could wish it to be, will yet show you that there are some possessed of as much spirit, wit, and craft as men. If my tale be somewhat long, you will bear with it in patience.”