2 Damascened.—Ed.
His hat was of black silk, and to it was fastened a rich medal on which by way of device was engraved the god of Love subdued by Force, the whole enriched with precious stones. His sword and dagger were no less handsomely and choicely ordered. In a word, he was most bravely equipped, while so skilled was his horsemanship that all who saw him left the pleasures of the chase to watch the leaps and paces of his steed.
After bringing the Queen in this fashion to the place where the nets were spread, he dismounted from his noble horse and went to assist the Queen to alight from her palfrey. And whilst she was stretching out her hands to him, he threw his cloak back from before his breast, and taking her in his arms, showed her his corselet-mirror, saying—
“I pray you, madam, look here.”
Then, without waiting for her reply, he set her down gently upon the ground.
When the hunt was over, the Queen returned to the castle without speaking to Elisor, but after supper she called him to her and told him that he was the greatest liar she had ever seen; for he had promised to show her at the hunt the lady whom he loved the best, but had not done so, for which reason she was resolved to hold him in esteem no more.
Elisor, fearing that the Queen had not understood the words he had spoken to her, answered that he had indeed obeyed her, for he had shown her not merely the woman but the thing also, that he loved best in all the world.
Pretending that she did not understand him, she replied that he had not, to her knowledge, shown her a single one among her ladies.
“That is true, madam,” said Elisor, “but what did I show you when I helped you off your horse?”
“Nothing,” said the Queen, “except a mirror on your breast.”
“And what did you see in the mirror?” said Elisor.
“I saw nothing but myself,” replied the Queen.
“Then, madam,” said Elisor, “I have kept faith with you and obeyed your command. There is not, nor ever will there be, another image in my heart save that which you saw upon my breast. Her alone will I love, reverence and worship, not as a woman merely, but as my very God on earth, in whose hands I place my life or my death, entreating her withal that the deep and perfect affection, which was my life whilst it remained concealed, may not prove my death now that it is discovered. And though I be not worthy that you should look on me or accept me for your lover, at least suffer me to live, as hitherto, in the happy consciousness that my heart has chosen so perfect and so worthy an object for its love, wherefrom I can have no other satisfaction than the knowledge that my love is deep and perfect, seeing that I must be content to love without hope of return. And if, now knowing this great love of mine, you should not be pleased to favour me more than heretofore, at least do not deprive me of life, which for me consists wholly in the delight of seeing you as usual. I now have from you nought but what my utmost need requires, and should I have less, you will have a servant the less, for you will lose the best and most devoted that you have ever had or could ever look to have.”
The Queen—whether to show herself other than she really was, or to thoroughly try the love he bore her, or because she loved another whom she would not cast off, or because she wished to hold him in reserve to put him in the place of her actual lover should the latter give her any offence—said to him, with a countenance that showed neither anger nor content—“Elisor, I will not feign ignorance of the potency of love, and say aught to you concerning your foolishness in aiming at so high and hard a thing as the love of me; for I know that man’s heart is so little under his own control, that he cannot love or hate at will. But, since you have concealed your feelings so well, I would fain know how long it is since you first entertained them.”
Elisor, gazing at her beauteous face and hearing her thus inquire concerning his sickness, hoped that she might be willing to afford him a remedy. But at the same time, observing the grave and staid expression of her countenance, he became afraid, feeling himself to be in the presence of a judge whose sentence, he suspected, would be against him. Nevertheless he swore to her that this love had taken root in his heart in the days of his earliest youth, though it was only during the past seven years that it had caused him pain,—and yet, in truth, not pain, but so pleasing a sickness that its cure would be his death.
“Since you have displayed such lengthened steadfastness,” said the Queen, “I must not show more haste in believing you, than you have shown in telling me of your affection. If, therefore, it be as you say, I will so test your sincerity that I shall never afterwards be able to doubt it; and having proved your pain, I will hold you to be towards me such as you yourself swear you are; and on my knowing you to be what you say, you, for your part, shall find me to be what you desire.”
Elisor begged her to test him in any way she pleased, there being nothing, he said, so difficult that it would not appear very easy to him, if he might have the honour of proving his love to her; and accordingly he begged her once more to command him as to what she would to have him do.
“Elisor,” she replied, “if you love me as much as you say, I am sure that you will deem nothing hard of accomplishment if only it may bring you my favour. I therefore command you, by your desire of winning it and your fear of losing it, to depart hence to-morrow morning without seeing me again, and to repair to some place where, until this day seven years, you shall hear nothing of me nor I anything of you. You, who have had seven years’ experience of this love, know that you do indeed love me; and when I have had a like experience, I too shall know and believe what your words cannot now make me either believe or understand.”
When Elisor heard this cruel command, he on the one hand suspected that she desired to remove him from her presence, yet, on the other, he hoped that this proof would plead more eloquently for him than any words he could utter. He therefore submitted to her command, and said—
“For seven years I have lived hopeless, bearing in my breast a hidden flame; now, however, that this is known to you, I shall spend these other seven years in patience and trust. But, madam, while I obey your command, which robs me of all the happiness that I have heretofore had in the world, what hope will you give me that at the end of the seven years you will accept me as your faithful and devoted lover?”
“Here is a ring,” said the Queen, drawing one from her finger, “which we will cut in two. I will keep one half, and you shall keep the other, (3) so that I may know you by this token, if the lapse of time should cause me to forget your face.”
3 This was a common practice at the time between lovers, andeven between husbands and wives. There is the familiar butdoubtful story of Frances de Foix, Countess ofChâteaubriant, who became Francis I.‘s mistress, and who issaid to have divided a ring in this manner with her husband,it being understood between them that she was not to repairto Court, or even leave her residence in Brittany, unlessher husband sent her as a token the half of the ring whichhe had kept. Francis I., we are told, heard of this, andcausing a ring of the same pattern to be made, he sent halfof it to the Countess, who thereupon came to Court,imagining that it was her husband who summoned her. Whetherthe story be true or not, it should be mentioned that thesole authority for it is Varillas, whose errors andinventions are innumerable.—Ed.
Elisor took the ring and broke it in two, giving one half of it to the Queen, and keeping the other himself. Then, more corpse-like than those who have given up the ghost, he took his leave, and went to his lodging to give orders for his departure. In doing this he sent all his attendants to his house, and departed alone with one servingman to so solitary a spot that none of his friends or kinsfolk could obtain tidings of him during the seven years.
Of the life that he led during this time, and the grief that he endured through this banishment, nothing is recorded, but lovers cannot be ignorant of their nature. At the end of the seven years, just as the Queen was one day going to mass, a hermit with a long beard came to her, kissed her hand, and presented her with a petition. This she did not look at immediately, although it was her custom to receive in her own hands all the petitions that were presented to her, no matter how poor the petitioners might be.
When mass was half over, however, she opened the petition, and found in it the half-ring which she had given to Elisor. At this she was not less glad than astonished, and before reading the contents she instantly commanded her almoner to bring her the tall hermit who had presented her the petition.
The almoner looked for him everywhere, but could obtain no tidings of him, except that some one said that he had seen him mount a horse, but knew not what road he had taken.
Whilst she was waiting for the almoner’s return, the Queen read the petition, which she found to be an epistle in verse, written in the best style imaginable; and were it not that I would have you acquainted with it, I should never have dared to translate it; for you must know, ladies, that, for grace and expression, the Castilian is beyond compare the tongue which is best fitted to set forth the passion of love. The matter of the letter was as follows:—
“Time, by his puissance stern, his sov’reign might,Hath made me learn love’s character aright;And, bringing with him, in his gloomy train,The speechless eloquence of bitter pain,Hath caused the unbelieving one to knowWhat words of love were impotent to show.Time made my heart, aforetime, meekly bowUnto the mastery of love; but nowTime hath, at last, revealed love to beFar other than it once appeared to me;And Time the frail foundation hath made clearWhereon I purposed, once, my love to rear—To wit, your beauty, which but served as sheathTo hide the cruelty that lurked beneath.Yea, Time hath shown me beauty’s nothingnessAnd taught me e’en your cruelty to bless,That cruelty which banished me the placeWhere I, at least, had gazed upon your face.And when no more I saw your beauty beamThe harsher yet your cruelty did seem;Yet in obedience failed I not, and thisHath been the means of compassing my bliss.For Time, love’s parent, pitiful at last,Upon my woe commiserate eyes hath cast,And done to me so excellent a turn,That, if I now come back, think not I yearnTo sigh and dally, and renew the spell—I only come to bid a last farewell.Time, the revealer, hath not failed to proveHow base and sorry is all human love,So that through Time, I now that time regretWhen all my fancy upon love was set,For then Time wasted was, lost in love’s chains,Sorrow whereof is all that now remains.And Time in teaching methatlove’s deceitHath brought another, far more pure and sweet,To dwell within me, in the lonely spotWhere tears and silence long have been my lot.Time, to my heart, that higher love hath broughtWith which the lower can no more be sought;Time hath the latter into exile driven,And, to the first, myself hath wholly given,And consecrated to its service trueThe heart and hand I erst had given to you.When I was yours you nothing showed of grace,And I that nothing loved, for your fair face;Then, death for loyalty, you sought to give,And I, in fleeing it, have learnt to live.For, by the tender love that Time hath broughtThe other vanquished is, and turned to nought;Once did it lure and lull me, but I swearIt now hath wholly vanished in thin air.And so your love and you I gladly leave,And, needing neither, will forbear to grieve;The other perfect, lasting love is mine,To it I turn, nor for the lost one pine.My leave I take of cruelty and pain,Of hatred, bitter torment, cold disdain,And those hot flames which fill you, and which fireHim, that beholds your beauty, with desire.Nor can I better part from ev’ry throe,From ev’ry evil hap, and stress of woe,And the fierce passion of love’s awful hell,Than by this single utterance:Farewell.Learn therefore, that whate’er may be in store,Each other’s faces we shall see no more.”
This letter was not read without many tears and much astonishment on the Queen’s part, together with regret surpassing belief; for the loss of a lover filled with so perfect a love must needs have been keenly felt; and not all her treasures, nor even her kingdom itself, could hinder the Queen from being the poorest and most wretched lady in the world, seeing that she had lost that which all the world’s wealth could not replace. And having heard mass to the end and returned to her apartment, she there made such mourning as her cruelty had provoked. And there was not a mountain, a rock or a forest to which she did not send in quest of the hermit; but He who had withdrawn him out of her hands preserved him from falling into them again, and took him away to Paradise before she could gain tidings of him in this world.
“This instance shows that a lover should never acknowledge that which may do him harm and in no wise help him. And still less, ladies, should you in your incredulity demand so hard a test, lest in getting your proof you lose your lover.”
“Truly, Dagoucin,” said Geburon, “I had all my life long deemed the lady of your story to be the most virtuous in the world, but now I hold her for the most cruel woman that ever lived.”
“Nevertheless,” said Parlamente, “it seems to me that she did him no wrong in wishing to try him for seven years, in order to see whether he did love her as much as he said. Men are so wont to speak falsely in these matters that before trusting them, if indeed one trust them at all, one cannot put them to the proof too long.”
“The ladies of our day,” said Hircan, “are far wiser than those of past times, for they are as sure of a lover after a seven days’ trial as the others were after seven years.”
“Yet there are those in this company,” said Longarine, “who have been loved with all earnestness for seven years and more, and albeit have not been won.”
“‘Fore God,” said Simontault, “you speak the truth; but such as they ought to be ranked with the ladies of former times, for they cannot be recognised as belonging to the present.”
“After all,” said Oisille, “the gentleman was much beholden to the lady, for it was owing to her that he devoted his heart wholly to God.”
“It was very fortunate for him,” said Saffredent, “that he found God upon the way, for, considering the grief he was in, I am surprised that he did not give himself to the devil.”
“And did you give yourself to such a master,” asked Ennasuite, “when your lady ill used you?”
“Yes, thousands of times,” said Saffredent, “but the devil, seeing that all the torments of hell could bring me no more suffering than those which she caused me to endure, never condescended to take me. He knew full well that no devil is so bad as a lady who is deeply loved and will make no return.”
“If I were you,” said Parlamente to Saffredent, “and held such an opinion as that, I would never make love to woman.”
“My affection,” said Saffredent, “and my folly are always so great, that where I cannot command I am well content to serve. All the ill-will of the ladies cannot subdue the love that I bear them. But, I pray you, tell me on your conscience, do you praise this lady for such great harshness?”
“Ay,” said Oisille, “I do, for I think that she wished neither to receive love nor to bestow it.”
“If such was her mind,” said Simontault, “why did she hold out to him the hope of being loved after the seven years were past?”
“I am of your opinion,” said Longarine, “for ladies who are unwilling to love give no occasion for the continuance of the love that is offered them.”
“Perhaps,” said Nomerfide, “she loved some one else less worthy than that honourable gentleman, and so forsook the better for the worse.”
“‘T faith,” said Saffredent, “I think that she meant to keep him in readiness and take him whenever she might leave the other whom for the time she loved the best.”
“I can see,” said Oisille, (4) “that the more we talk in this way, the more those who would not be harshly treated will do their utmost to speak ill of us. Wherefore, Dagoucin, I pray you give some lady your vote.”
4 Prior to this sentence the following passage occurs inthe De Thou MS.: “When Madame Oysille saw that the men,under pretence of censuring the Queen of Castille forconduct which certainly cannot be praised either in her orin any other, continued saying so much evil of women, thatthe most discreet and virtuous were spared no more than themost foolish and wanton, she could endure it no longer, butspoke and said,” &c.—L.
“I give it,” he said, “to Longarine, for I feel sure that she will tell us no melancholy story, and that she will speak the truth without sparing man or woman.”
“Since you deem me so truthful,” said Longarine, “I will be so bold as to relate an adventure that befel a very great Prince, who surpasses in worth all others of his time. Lying and dissimulation are, indeed, things not to be employed save in cases of extreme necessity; they are foul and infamous vices, more especially in Princes and great lords, on whose lips and features truth sits more becomingly than on those of other men. But no Prince in the world however great he be, even though he have all the honours and wealth he may desire, can escape being subject to the empire and tyranny of Love; indeed it would seem that the nobler and more high-minded the Prince, the more does Love strive to bring him under his mighty hand. For this glorious God sets no store by common things; his majesty rejoices solely in the daily working of miracles, such as weakening the strong, strengthening the weak, giving knowledge to the simple, taking intelligence from the most learned, favouring the passions, and overthrowing the reason. In such transformations as these does the Deity of Love delight. Now since Princes are not exempt from love’s thraldom, so also are they not free from its necessities, and must therefore perforce be permitted to employ falsehood, hypocrisy and deceit, which, according to the teaching of Master Jehan de Mehun, (5) are the means to be employed for vanquishing our enemies. And, since such conduct is praiseworthy on the part of a Prince in such a case as this (though in any other it were deserving of blame), I will relate to you the devices to which a young Prince resorted, and by which he contrived to deceive those who are wont to deceive the whole world.”
5 John dc Melun, who continued theRoman de la Rosebegunby Lorris.—D.
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131a.jpg the Advocate’s Wife Attending on The Prince
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A young Prince, whilst pretending to visit his lawyer andtalk with him of his affairs, conversed so freely with thelawyer’s wife, that he obtained from her what he desired.
In the city of Paris there dwelt an advocate who was more highly thought of than any other of his condition, (1) and who, being sought after by every one on account of his excellent parts, had become the richest of all those who wore the gown.
1 In five of the oldest MSS. of theHeptameron, and inthe original editions of 1558, 1559, and 1560, the words are“than nine others of his condition.” The explanation of thisis, that the advocate’s name, as ascertained by Baron JeromePichon, was Disome, which, written Dix-hommes, wouldliterally mean “ten men.” Baron Pichon has largelyelucidated this story, and the essential points of hisnotice, contributed to theMélanges de la Société desBibliophiles Français, will be found summarized in theAppendix to this volume, B.—Ed.
Now, although he had had no children by his first wife, he was in hopes of having some by a second; for, although his body was no longer hearty, his heart and hopes were as much alive as ever. Accordingly, he made choice of one of the fairest maidens in the city; she was between eighteen and nineteen years of age, very handsome both in features and complexion, and still more handsome in figure. He loved her and treated her as well as could be; but he had no children by her any more than by his first wife, and this at last made her unhappy. And as youth cannot endure grief, she sought diversion away from home, and betook herself to dances and feasts; yet she did this in so seemly a fashion that her husband could not take it ill, for she was always in the company of women in whom he had trust.
One day, when she was at a wedding, there was also present a Prince of very high degree, who, when telling me the story, forbade me to discover his name. I may, however, tell you that he was the handsomest and most graceful Prince that has ever been or, in my opinion, ever will be in this realm. (2)
2 Francis L, prior to his accession.—Ed.
The Prince, seeing this fair and youthful lady whose eyes and countenance invited him to love her, came and spoke to her with such eloquence and grace that she was well pleased with his discourse.
Nor did she seek to hide from him that she had long had in her heart the love for which he prayed, but entreated that he would spare all pains to persuade her to a thing to which love, at first sight, had brought her to consent. Having, by the artlessness of love, so promptly gained what was well worth the pains of being won by time, the young Prince thanked God for His favour, and forthwith contrived matters so well that they agreed together in devising a means for seeing each other in private.
The young Prince failed not to appear at the time and place that had been agreed upon, and, that he might not injure his lady’s honour, he went in disguise. On account, however, of the evil fellows (3) who were wont to prowl at night through the city, and to whom he cared not to make himself known, he took with him certain gentlemen in whom he trusted.
3 The French expression here ismauvais garsons, a namegenerally given to foot-pads at that time, but applied moreparticularly to a large band of brigands who, in theconfusion prevailing during Francis I.‘s captivity in Spain,began to infest the woods and forests around Paris, whenceat night-time they descended upon the city. Severalengagements were fought between them and the troops of theQueen-Regent, and although their leader, called KingGuillot, was captured and hanged, the remnants of the bandcontinued their depredations for several years.—B. J.
And on entering the street in which the lady lived, he parted from them, saying—
“If you hear no noise within a quarter of an hour, go home again, and come back here for me at about three or four o’clock.”
They did as they were commanded, and, hearing no noise, withdrew.
The young Prince went straight to his advocate’s house, where he found the door open as had been promised him. But as he was ascending the staircase he met the husband, carrying a candle in his hand, and was perceived by him before he was aware. However Love, who provides wit and boldness to contend with the difficulties that he creates, prompted the young Prince to go straight up to him and say—
“Master advocate, you know the trust which I and all belonging to my house have ever put in you, and how I reckon you among my best and truest servants. I have now thought it well to visit you here in private, both to commend my affairs to you, and also to beg you to give me something to drink, for I am in great thirst. And, I pray you, tell none that I have come here, for from this place I must go to another where I would not be known.”
The worthy advocate was well pleased at the honour which the Prince paid him in coming thus privately to his house, and, leading him to his own room, he bade his wife prepare a collation of the best fruits and confections that she had.
Although the garments she wore, a kerchief and mantle, made her appear more beautiful than ever, the young Prince affected not to look at her or notice her, but spoke unceasingly to her husband about his affairs, as to one who had long had them in his hands. And, whilst the lady was kneeling with the confections before the Prince, and her husband was gone to the sideboard in order to serve him with drink, she told him that on leaving the room he must not fail to enter a closet which he would find on the right hand, and whither she would very soon come to see him.
As soon as he had drunk, he thanked the advocate, who was all eagerness to attend him; but the Prince assured him that in the place whither he was going he had no need of attendance, and thereupon turning to the wife, he said—
“Moreover, I will not do so ill as to deprive you of your excellent husband, who is also an old servant of mine. Well may you render thanks to God since you are so fortunate as to have such a husband, well may you render him service and obedience. If you did otherwise, you would be blameworthy indeed.”
With these virtuous words the young Prince went away, and, closing the door behind him so that he might not be followed to the staircase, he entered the closet, whither also came the fair lady as soon as her husband had fallen asleep.
Thence she led the Prince into a cabinet as choicely furnished as might be, though in truth there were no fairer figures in it than he and she, no matter what garments they may have been pleased to wear. And here, I doubt not, she kept word with him as to all that she had promised.
He departed thence at the hour which he had appointed with his gentlemen, and found them at the spot where he had aforetime bidden them wait.
As this intercourse lasted a fairly long time, the young Prince chose a shorter way to the advocate’s house, and this led him through a monastery of monks. (4) And so well did he contrive matters with the Prior, that the porter used always to open the gate for him about midnight, and do the like also when he returned. And, as the house which he visited was hard by, he used to take nobody with him.
4 If at this period Jane Disome, the heroine of the story,lived in the Rue de la Pauheminerie, where she is known tohave died some years afterwards, this monastery, in BaronJerome Pichon’s opinion, would be the Blancs-Manteaux, inthe Marais district of Paris. We may further point out thatin the Rue Barbette, near by, there was till modern times ahouse traditionally known as the “hôtel de la belleFéronnière.” That many writers have confused the heroine ofthis tale with La Belle Féronnière (so called because herhusband was a certain Le Féron, an advocate) seems manifest;the intrigue in which the former took part was doubtlessascribed in error to the latter, and the proximity of theirabodes may have led to the mistake. It should be pointedout, however, that the amour here recorded by Queen Margarettook place in or about the year 1515, before Francis I.ascended the throne, whereas La Féronnière was in all herbeauty between 1530 and 1540. The tradition that the Kinghad an intrigue with La Féronnière reposes on the flimsiestevidence (see Appendix B), and the supposition, re-echoed bythe Bibliophile Jacob, that it was carried on in the Rue del’Hirondelle, is entirely erroneous. The house, adorned withthe salamander device and corneted initials of Francis I.,which formerly extended from that street to the Rue Git-le-Coeur, never had any connection with La Féronnière. It wasthe famous so-called Palace of Love which the King built forhis acknowledged mistress, Anne de Pisseleu, Duchess ofÉtampes.—Ed.
Although he led the life that I have described, he was nevertheless a Prince that feared and loved God, and although he made no pause when going, he never failed on his return to continue for a long time praying in the church. And the monks, who when going to and fro at the hour of matins used to see him there on his knees, were thereby led to consider him the holiest man alive.
This Prince had a sister (5) who often visited this monastery, and as she loved her brother more than any other living being, she used to commend him to the prayers of all whom she knew to be good.
5 This of course is Queen Margaret, then Duchess ofAlençon. On account of her apparent intimacy with the prior,M. de Montaiglon conjectures that the monastery may havebeen that of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.—See ante, TaleXXII.—Ed.
One day, when she was in this manner commending him lovingly to the Prior of the monastery, the Prior said to her—
“Ah, madam, whom are you thus commending to me? You are speaking to me of a man in whose prayers, above those of all others, I would myself fain be remembered. For if he be not a holy man and a just”—here he quoted the passage which says, “Blessed is he that can do evil and doeth it not”—“Icannot hope to be held for such.”
The sister, wishing to learn what knowledge this worthy father could have of her brother’s goodness, questioned him so pressingly that he at last told her the secret under the seal of the confessional, saying—
“Is it not an admirable thing to see a young and handsome Prince forsake pleasure and repose in order to come so often to hear our matins? Nor comes he like a Prince seeking honour of men, but quite alone, like a simple monk, and hides himself in one of our chapels. Truly such piety so shames both the monks and me, that we do not deem ourselves worthy of being called men of religion in comparison with him.”
When the sister heard these words she was at a loss what to think. She knew that, although her brother was worldly enough, he had a tender conscience, as well as great faith and love towards God; but she had never suspected him of a leaning towards any superstitions or rites save such as a good Christian should observe. (6) She therefore went to him and told him the good opinion that the monks had of him, whereat he could not hold from laughing, and in such a manner that she, knowing him as she did her own heart, perceived that there was something hidden beneath his devotion; whereupon she rested not until she had made him tell her the truth.
6 In Boaistuau’s edition this sentence ends, “But she hadnever suspected him of going to church at such an hour asthis.”—L.
And she has made me here set it down in writing, for the purpose, ladies, of showing you that there is no lawyer so crafty and no monk so shrewd, but love, in case of need, gives the power of tricking them both, to those whose sole experience is in truly loving. And since love can thus deceive the deceivers, well may we, who are simple and ignorant folk, stand in awe of him.
“Although,” said Geburon, “I can pretty well guess who the young Prince is, I must say that in this matter he was worthy of praise. We meet with few great lords who reck aught of a woman’s honour or a public scandal, if only they have their pleasure; nay, they are often well pleased to have men believe something that is even worse than the truth.”
“Truly,” said Oisille, “I could wish that all young lords would follow his example, for the scandal is often worse than the sin.”
“Of course,” said Nomerfide, “the prayers he offered up at the monastery through which he passed were sincere.”
“That is not a matter for you to judge,” said Parlamente, “for perhaps his repentance on his return was great enough to procure him the pardon of his sin.”
“‘Tis a hard matter,” said Hircan, “to repent of an offence so pleasing. For my own part I have many a time confessed such a one, but seldom have I repented of it.”
“It would be better,” said Oisille, “not to confess at all, if one do not sincerely repent.”
“Well, madam,” said Hircan, “sin sorely displeases me, and I am grieved to offend God, but, for all that, such sin is ever a pleasure to me.”
“You and those like you,” said Parlamente, “would fain have neither God nor law other than your own desires might set up.”
“I will own to you,” said Hircan, “that I would gladly have God take as deep a pleasure in my pleasures as I do myself, for I should then often give Him occasion to rejoice.”
“However, you cannot set up a new God,” said Geburon, “and so we must e’en obey the one we have. Let us therefore leave such disputes to theologians, and allow Longarine to give some one her vote.”
“I give it,” she said, “to Saffredent, but I will beg him to tell us the finest tale he can think of, and not to be so intent on speaking evil of women as to hide the truth when there is something good of them to relate.”
“In sooth,” said Saffredent, “I consent, for I have here in hand the story of a wanton woman and a discreet one, and you shall take example by her who pleases you best. You will see that just as love leads wicked people to do wicked things, so does it lead a virtuous heart to do things that are worthy of praise; for love in itself is good, although the evil that is in those that are subject to it often makes it take a new title, such as wanton, light, cruel or vile. However, you will see from the tale that I am now about to relate that love does not change the heart, but discovers it to be what it really is, wanton in the wanton and discreet in the discreet.”
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143a.jpg the Lord of Avannes Paying his Court in Disguise
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By the counsel and sisterly affection of a virtuous lady,the Lord of Avannes was drawn from the wanton love that heentertained for a gentlewoman dwelling at Pampeluna.
In the days of King Louis the Twelfth there lived a young lord called Monsieur d’Avannes, (1) son of the Lord of Albret [and] brother to King John of Navarre, with whom this aforesaid Lord of Avannes commonly abode.
1 This is Gabriel d’Albret, Lord of Avesnes and Lesparre,fourth son of Alan the Great, Sire d’Albret, and brother ofJohn d’Albret, King of Navarre, respecting whom seepost,note 4 to Tale XXX. Queen Margaret is in error in datingthis story from the reign of Louis XII. The incidents sherelates must have occurred between 1485 and 1490, under thereign of Charles VIII., by whom Gabriel d’Albret, onreaching manhood, was successively appointed counsellor andchamberlain, Seneschal of Guyenne and Viceroy of Naples.Under Louis XII. he took a prominent part in the Italiancampaigns of 1500-1503, in which latter year he is known tohave made his will, bequeathing all he possessed to hisbrother, Cardinal d’Albret. He died a bachelor in 1504.—SeeAnselme’sHistoire Généalogique, vol. vi. p. 214.—L. andEd.
Now this young lord, who was fifteen years of age, was so handsome and so fully endowed with every excellent grace that he seemed to have been made solely to be loved and admired, as he was indeed by all who saw him, and above all by a lady who dwelt in the town of Pampeluna (2) in Navarre. She was married to a very rich man, with whom she lived in all virtue, inasmuch that, although her husband was nearly fifty years old and she was only three and twenty, she dressed so plainly that she had more the appearance of a widow than of a married woman. Moreover, she was never known to go to weddings or feasts unless accompanied by her husband, whose worth and virtue she prized so highly that she set them before all the comeliness of other men. And her husband, finding her so discreet, trusted her and gave all the affairs of his household into her hands.
2 Pampeluna or Pamplona, the capital of Navarre, wrestedfrom King John in 1512 by the troops of Ferdinand theCatholic.—Ed.
One day this rich man was invited with his wife to a wedding among their kinsfolk; and among those who were present to do honour to the bridal was the young Lord of Avannes, who was exceedingly fond of dancing, as was natural in one who surpassed therein all others of his time. When dinner was over and the dances were begun, the rich man begged the Lord of Avannes to do his part, whereupon the said lord asked him with whom he would have him dance.
“My lord,” replied the gentleman, “I can present to you no lady fairer and more completely at my disposal than my wife, and I therefore beg you to honour me so far as to lead her out.”
This the young Prince did; and he was still so young that he took far greater pleasure in frisking and dancing than in observing the beauty of the ladies. But his partner, on the contrary, gave more heed to his grace and beauty than to the dance, though in her prudence she took good care not to let this appear.
The supper hour being come, the Lord of Avannes bade the company farewell, and departed to the castle, (3) whither the rich man accompanied him on his mule. And as they were going, the rich man said to him—
“My lord, you have this day done so much honour to my kinsfolk and to me, that I should indeed be ungrateful if I did not place myself with all that belongs to me at your service. I know, sir, that lords like yourself, who have stern and miserly fathers, are often in greater need of money than we, who, with small establishments and careful husbandry, seek only to save up wealth. Now, albeit God has given me a wife after my own heart, it has not pleased Him to give me all my Paradise in this world, for He has withheld from me the joy that fathers derive from having children. I know, my lord, that it is not for me to adopt you as a son, but if you will accept me for your servant and make known to me your little affairs, I will not fail to assist you in your need so far as a hundred thousand crowns may go.”
3 Evidently the castle of Pampeluna, where Gabriel d’Albretresided with his brother the King.—Ed.
The Lord of Avannes was in great joy at this offer, for he had just such a father as the other had described; accordingly he thanked him, and called him his adopted father.
From that hour the rich man evinced so much love towards the Lord of Avannes, that morning and evening he failed not to inquire whether he had need of anything, nor did he conceal this devotion from his wife, who loved him for it twice as much as before. Thenceforward the Lord of Avannes had no lack of anything that he desired. He often visited the rich man, and ate and drank with him; and when he found the husband abroad, the wife gave him all that he required, and further spoke to him so sagely, exhorting him to live discreetly and virtuously, that he reverenced and loved her above all other women.
Having God and honour before her eyes, she remained content with thus seeing him and speaking to him, for these are sufficient for virtuous and honourable love; and she never gave any token whereby he might have imagined that she felt aught but a sisterly and Christian affection towards him.
While this secret love continued, the Lord of Avannes, who, by the assistance that I have spoken of, was always well and splendidly apparelled, came to the age of seventeen years, and began to frequent the company of ladies more than had been his wont. And although he would fain have loved this virtuous lady rather than any other, yet his fear of losing her friendship should she hear any such discourse from him, led him to remain silent and to divert himself elsewhere.
He therefore addressed himself to a gentlewoman of the neighbourhood of Pampeluna, who had a house in the town, and was married to a young man whose chief delight was in horses, hawks and hounds. For her sake, he began to set on foot a thousand diversions, such as tourneys, races, wrestlings, masquerades, banquets, and other pastimes, at all of which this young lady was present. But as her husband was very humorsome, and her parents, knowing her to be both fair and frolicsome, were jealous of her honour, they kept such strict watch over her that my Lord of Avannes could obtain nothing from her save a word or two at the dance, although, from the little that had passed between them, he well knew that time and place alone were wanting to crown their loves.
He therefore went to his good father, the rich man, and told him that he deeply desired to make a pilgrimage to our Lady of Montferrat, (4) for which reason he begged him to house his followers, seeing that he wished to go alone.