2 The allusion is not to the ordinary beggars who then, asnow, swarmed in Spain, but to the Mendicant friars.—Ed.3 In Boaistuau’s and Gruget’s editions of theHeptameronthe dialogue following this tale is replaced by matter oftheir own invention. They did not dare to reproduce QueenMargaret’s bold opinions respecting the clergy, the monasticorders, &c., at a time when scores of people, including evenCounsellors of Parliament, were being burnt at the stake forheresy.—L. and Ed.
“What think you? Was she not far more prudent than her husband, and did she not think less of her conscience than of the advantage of her household?”
“I think,” said Parlamente, “that she did love her husband; but, seeing that most men wander in their wits when at the point of death, and knowing his intentions, she tried to interpret them to her children’s advantage. And therein I hold her to have been very prudent.”
“What!” said Geburon. “Do you not hold it a great wrong not to carry out the last wishes of departed friends?”
“Assuredly I do,” said Parlamente; “that is to say if the testator be in his right mind, and not raving.”
“Do you call it raving to give one’s goods to the Church and the poor Mendicants?”
“I do not call it raving,” said Parlamente, “if a man distribute what God has given into his hands among the poor; but to make alms of another person’s goods is, in my opinion, no great wisdom. You will commonly see the greatest usurers build the handsomest and most magnificent chapels imaginable, thinking they may appease God with ten thousand ducats’ worth of building for a hundred thousand ducats’ worth of robbery, just as though God did not know how to count.”
“In sooth,” said Oisille, “I have many a time wondered how they can think to appease God for things which He Himself rebuked when He was on earth, such as great buildings, gildings, pictures and paint. If they really understood the passage in which God says to us that the only offering He requires from us is a contrite and humble heart, (4) and the other in which St. Paul says we are the temples of God wherein He desires to dwell, (5) they would be at pains to adorn their consciences while yet alive, and would not wait for the hour when man can do nothing more, whether good or evil, nor (what is worse) charge those who remain on earth to give their alms to folk upon whom, during their lifetime, they did not deign to look. But He who knows the heart cannot be deceived, and will judge them not according to their works, but according to their faith and charity towards Himself.”
4 “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken anda contrite heart, O God, thou will not despise.”—Psalmli. 17.—Ed.5 “For ye are the temple of the living God; as God hathsaid, I will dwell in them and walk in them,” &c.—2Corinthiansvi. 16.—Ed.
“Why is it, then,” said Geburon, “that these Grey Friars and Mendicants talk to us at our death of nothing but bestowing great benefits upon their monasteries, assuring us that they will put us into Paradise whether we will or not?”
“How now, Geburon?” said Hircan. “Have you forgotten the wickedness you related to us of the Grey Friars, that you ask how such folk find it possible to lie? I declare to you that I do not think that there can be greater lies than theirs. Those, indeed, who speak on behalf of the whole community are not to be blamed, but there are some among them who forget their vows of poverty in order to satisfy their own greed.”
“Methinks, Hircan,” said Nomerfide, “you must know some such tale, and if it be worthy of this company, I pray you tell it us.”
“I will,” said Hircan, “although it irks me to speak of such folk. Methinks they are of the number of those of whom Virgil says to Dante, ‘Pass on and heed them not.’ (6) Still, to show you that they have not laid aside their passions with their worldly garments, I will tell you of something that once came to pass.”
6Non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa(Dante’sPurgatorio, iii. 51). The allusion is to the souls ofthose who led useless and idle lives on earth, supportingneither the Divinity by the observance of virtue, nor thespirit of evil by the practice of vice. They are thus castout both from heaven and hell.—Ed.
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051a.jpg the Grey Friar Introducing his Comrade to The Lady and Her Daughter
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A pious lady had recourse to a Grey Friar for his advice inproviding her daughter with a good husband, for whom sheproposed making it so profitable a match that the worthyfather, hoping to get the money she intended for her son-in-law, married her daughter to a young comrade of his own. Thelatter came every evening to sup and lie with his wife, andin the morning returned in the garb of a scholar to hisconvent. But one day while he was chanting mass, his wifeperceived him and pointed him out to her mother; who,however, could not believe that it was he until she hadpulled off his coif while he was in bed, and from his tonsurelearned the whole truth, and the deceit used by her fatherconfessor.
A French lady, whilst sojourning at Padua, was informed that there was a Grey Friar in the Bishop’s prison there, and finding that every one spoke jestingly about him, she inquired the reason. She was told that this Grey Friar, who was an old man, had been confessor to a very honourable and pious widow lady, mother of only one daughter, whom she loved so dearly as to be at all pains to amass riches for her, and to find her a good husband. Now, seeing that her daughter was grown up, she was unceasingly anxious to find her a husband who might live with them in peace and quiet, a man, that is, of a good conscience, such as she deemed herself to possess. And since she had heard some foolish preacher say that it were better to do evil by the counsel of theologians than to do well through belief in the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, she had recourse to her father confessor, a man already old, a doctor of theology and one who was held to lead a holy life by the whole town, for she felt sure that, with his counsel and good prayers, she could not fail to find peace both for herself and for her daughter. After she had earnestly begged him to choose for her daughter such a husband as he knew a woman that loved God and her honour ought to desire, he replied that first of all it was needful to implore the grace of the Holy Spirit with prayer and fasting, and then, God guiding his judgment, he hoped to find what she required.
So the Friar retired to think over the matter; and whereas he had heard from the lady that she had got five hundred ducats together to give to her daughter’s husband, and that she would take upon herself the charge of maintaining both husband and wife with lodgment, furniture and clothes, he bethought himself that he had a young comrade of handsome figure and pleasing countenance, to whom he might give the fair maiden, the house, the furniture, maintenance and food, whilst he himself kept the five hundred ducats to gratify his burning greed. And when he spoke to his comrade of the matter, he found that they were both of one mind upon it.
He therefore returned to the lady and said—“I verily believe that God has sent his angel Raphael to me as he did to Tobit, to enable me to find a perfect husband for your daughter. I have in my house the most honourable gentleman in Italy, who has sometimes seen your daughter and is deeply in love with her. And so to-day, whilst I was at prayer, God sent him to me, and he told me of his desire for the marriage, whereupon, knowing his lineage and kindred and notable descent, I promised him to speak to you on the matter. There is, indeed, one defect in him, of which I alone have knowledge, and it is this. Wishing to save one of his friends whom another man was striving to slay, he drew his sword in order to separate them; but it chanced that his friend slew the other, and thus, although he himself had not dealt a blow, yet inasmuch as he had been present at a murder and had drawn his sword, he became a fugitive from his native town. By the advice of his kinsfolk he came hither in the garb of a scholar, and he dwells here unknown until his kinsfolk shall have ended the matter; and this he hopes will shortly be done. For this reason, then, it would be needful that the marriage should be performed in secret, and that you should suffer him to go in the daytime to the public lectures and return home every evening to sup and sleep.”
“Sir,” replied the worthy woman, “I look upon what you tell me as of great advantage to myself, for I shall at least have by me what I most desire in the world.”
Thereupon the Grey Friar brought his comrade, bravely attired with a crimson satin doublet, and the lady was well pleased with him. And as soon as he was come the betrothal took place, and, immediately after midnight, a mass was said and they were married. Then they went to bed together until daybreak, when the bridegroom told his wife that to escape discovery he must needs return to the college.
After putting on his crimson satin doublet and his long robe, without forgetting his coif of black silk, he bade his wife, who was still in bed, good-bye, promising that he would come every evening to sup with her, but that at dinner they must not wait for him. So he went away and left his wife, who esteemed herself the happiest woman alive to have found so excellent a match. And the young wedded Friar returned to the old father and brought him the five hundred ducats, as had been agreed between them when arranging the marriage.
In the evening he failed not to return and sup with her, who believed him to be her husband, and so well did he make himself liked by her and by his mother-in-law, that they would not have exchanged him for the greatest Prince alive.
This manner of life continued for some time, but God in His kindness takes pity upon those that are deceived without fault of their own, and so in His mercy and goodness it came to pass that one morning the lady and her daughter felt a great desire to go and hear mass at St. Francis, (1) and visit their good father confessor through whose means they deemed themselves so well provided, the one with a son-in-law and the other with a husband.
1 The church of the Grey Friars’ monastery, St Francisbeing their patron.—B. J.
It chanced that they did not find the confessor aforesaid nor any other that they knew, and, while waiting to see whether the father would come, they were pleased to hear high mass, which was just beginning. And whilst the young wife was giving close heed to the divine service and its mystery, she was stricken with astonishment on seeing the Priest turn himself about to pronounce theDominus vobiscum, for it seemed to her that it was her husband or else his very fellow. She uttered, however, not a word, but waited till he should turn round again, when, looking still more carefully at him, she had no doubt that it was indeed he. Then she twitched her mother, who was deep in contemplation, and said—
“Alas! madam, what is it that I see?”
“What is it?” said her mother.
“That is my husband,” she replied, “who is singing mass, or else ‘tis one as like him as can be.”
“I pray you, my daughter,” replied the mother, who had not carefully observed him, “do not take such a thought into your head. It is impossible that men who are so holy should have practised such deceit. You would sin grievously against God if you believed such a thing.”
Nevertheless the mother did not cease looking at him, and when it came to theIte missa estshe indeed perceived that no two sons of the same mother were ever so much alike. Yet she was so simple that she would fain have said, “O God, save me from believing what I see.” Since her daughter was concerned in the matter, however, she would not suffer it to remain in uncertainty, and resolved to learn the truth.
When evening was come, and the husband (who had perceived nothing of them) was about to return, the mother said to her daughter—
“We shall now, if you are willing, find out the truth concerning your husband. When he is in bed I will go to him, and then, while he is not thinking, you will pluck off his coif from behind, and we shall see whether he be tonsured like the Friar who said mass.”
As it was proposed, so was it done. As soon as the wicked husband was in bed, the old lady came and took both his hands as though in sport—her daughter took off his coif, and there he was with his fine tonsure. At this both mother and daughter were as greatly astonished as might be, and forthwith they called their servants to seize him and bind him fast till the morning, nor did any of his excuses or fine speeches avail him aught.
When day was come, the lady sent for her confessor, making as though she had some great secret to tell him, whereupon he came with all speed, and then, reproaching him for the deceit that he had practised on her, she had him seized like the other. Afterwards she sent for the officers of justice, in whose hands she placed them both. It is to be supposed that if the judges were honest men they did not suffer the offence to go unpunished. (2)
2 There is some little resemblance between this tale andthe 36th of Morlini’sNovello, De monacho qui duxituxorem.—M.
“From this story, ladies, you will see that those who have taken vows of poverty are not free from the temptation of covetousness, which is the cause of so many ills.”
“Nay, of so many blessings,” said Saffredent, “for with the five hundred ducats that the old woman would have stored up there was made much good cheer, while the poor maiden, who had been longing for a husband, was thus enabled to have two, and to speak with more knowledge as to the truth of all hierarchies.”
“You always hold the falsest opinions,” said Oisille, “that ever I knew. You think that all women are of your own temper.”
“Not so, madam, with your good leave,” said Saffredent. “I would give much that they were as easily satisfied as we are.”
“That is a wicked speech,” said Oisille, “and there is not one present but knows the contrary, and that what you say is untrue. The story that has just been told proves the ignorance of poor women and the wickedness of those whom we regard as better than the rest of your sex; for neither mother nor daughter would do aught according to their own fancy, but subjected desire to good advice.”
“Some women are so difficult,” said Longarine, “that they think they ought to have angels instead of men.”
“And for that reason,” said Simontault, “they often meet with devils, more especially those who, instead of trusting to God’s grace, think by their own good sense, or that of others, that they may in this world find some happiness, though this is granted by none save God, from whom alone it can come.”
“How now, Simontault!” said Oisille. “I did not think that you knew so much good.”
“Madam,” said Simontault, “‘tis a pity that I have not been proved, for I see that through lack of knowledge you have already judged ill of me. Yet I may well practise a Grey Friar’s trade, since a Grey Friar has meddled with mine.”
“So you call it your trade,” said Parlamente, “to deceive women? Thus out of your mouth are you judged.”
“Had I deceived a hundred thousand,” said Simontault, “I should yet not have avenged the woes that I have endured for the sake of one alone.”
“I know,” said Parlamente, “how often you complain of women; yet, for all that, we see you so merry and hearty that it is impossible to believe that you have endured all the woes you speak of. But the ‘Compassionless Fair One’ (3) replies that—
“‘Tis as well to say as muchTo draw some comfort thence.’”3La belle Dame sans mercy, by Alain Chartier.—Ed.
“You quote a truly notable theologian,” said Simontault, “one who is not only froward himself, but makes all the ladies so, who have read and followed his teaching.”
“Yet his teaching,” said Parlamente, “is as profitable for youthful dames as any that I know.”
“If it were indeed true,” said Simontault, “that the ladies were without compassion, we might as well let our horses rest and our armour grow rusty until the next war, and think of nothing but household affairs. And, I pray you, tell me whether it is an excellence in a lady to have the reputation of being without pity, or charity, or love, or mercy.”
“Without charity or love,” said Parlamente, “they should not be, but the word ‘mercy’ sounds so ill among women that they cannot use it without wounding their honour; for properly speaking ‘mercy’ means to grant a favour sought, and we well know what the favour is that men desire.”
“May it please you, madam,” said Simontault, “there are some men who are so reasonable that they crave nought but speech.”
“You remind me,” said Parlamente, “of one who was content with a glove.”
“We must know who this easy lover was,” said Hircan, “and so this time I give my vote to you.”
“It will give me pleasure to tell the tale,” said Parlamente, “for it is full of virtue.”
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063a.jpg the English Lord Seizing The Lady’s Glove
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An English lord for seven years loved a lady without everventuring to let her know of it, until one day, whenobserving her in a meadow, he lost all colour and control offeature through a sudden throbbing of the heart that cameupon him. Then she, showing her compassion, at his requestplaced her gloved hand upon his heart, whereupon he pressedit so closely, whilst declaring to her the love he had solong borne her, that she withdrew it, leaving in its placeher glove. And this glove he afterwards enriched with gemsand fastened upon his doublet above his heart, and showedhimself so graceful and virtuous a lover that he neversought any more intimate favour of her.
King Louis the Eleventh (1) sent the Lord de Montmorency to England as his ambassador, and so welcome was the latter in that country that the King and all the Princes greatly esteemed and loved him, and even made divers of their private affairs known to him in order to have his counsel upon them.
1 Some of the MS. say Louis XII., but we cannot find thateither the eleventh or twelfth Louis sent any Montmorency asambassador to England. Ripault-Desormeaux states, however,in his history of this famous French family, that William deMontmorency, who, after fighting in Italy under CharlesVIII. and Louis XII., became, governor of the Orléanais andchevalier d’honneurto Louise of Savoy was one of thesignatories of the treaty concluded with Henry VIII. ofEngland, after the-battle of Pavia in 1525. We know thatLouise, as Regent of France, at that time sent John Brinonand John Joachim de Passano as ambassadors to England, andpossibly William de Montmorency accompanied them, sinceDesormeaux expressly states that he guaranteed the loyalobservance of the treaty then negotiated. William was thefather of Anne, the famous Constable of France, and died May24, 1531. “Geburon,” in the dialogue following the abovetale, mentions that he had well known the Montmorencyreferred to, and speaks of him as of a person dead and gone.It is therefore scarcely likely that Queen Margaret alludesto Francis de Montmorency, Lord of La Rochepot, who was onlysent on a mission to England in 1546, and survived her bymany years.—L. and Ed.
One day, at a banquet that the King gave to him, he was seated beside a lord (2) of high lineage, who had on his doublet a little glove, such as women wear, fastened with hooks of gold and so adorned upon the finger-seams with diamonds, rubies, emeralds and pearls, that it was indeed a glove of great price.
2 The French word isMillor (Milord)and this is probablyone of the earliest instances of its employment to designatea member of the English aristocracy. In such of theCentNouvelles Nouvellesin which English nobles figure, thelatter are invariably calledseigneursorchevaliers,and addressed asMonseigneur, Later on, when Brantômewrote, the termun milord anglaishad become quite common,and he frequently makes use of it in his various works.English critics have often sneered at modern French writersfor employing the expression, but it will be seen from thisthat they have simply followed a very old tradition.—Ed.
The Lord de Montmorency looked at it so often that the English lord perceived he was minded to inquire why it was so choicely ordered; so, deeming its story to be greatly to his own honour, he thus began—
“I can see that you think it strange I should have so magnificently arrayed a simple glove, and on my part I am still more ready to tell you the reason, for I deem you an honest gentleman and one who knows what manner of passion love is, so that if I did well in the matter you will praise me for it, and if not, make excuse for me, knowing that every honourable heart must obey the behests of love. You must know, then, that I have all my life long loved a lady whom I love still, and shall love even when I am dead, but, as my heart was bolder to fix itself worthily than were my lips to speak, I remained for seven years without venturing to make her any sign, through fear that, if she perceived the truth, I should lose the opportunities I had of often being in her company; and this I dreaded more than death. However, one day, while I was observing her in a meadow, a great throbbing of the heart came upon me, so that I lost all colour and control of feature. Perceiving this, she asked me what the matter was, and I told her that I felt an intolerable pain of the heart. She, believing it to be caused by a different sickness than love, showed herself pitiful towards me, which prompted me to beg her to lay her hand upon my heart and see how it was beating. This, more from charity than from any other affection, she did, and while I held her gloved hand against my heart, it began to beat and strain in such wise, that she felt that I was speaking the truth. Then I pressed her hand to my breast, saying—
“‘Alas, madam, receive the heart which would fain break forth from my breast to leap into the hand of her from whom I look for indulgence, life and pity, and which now constrains me to make known to you the love that I have so long concealed, for neither my heart nor I can now control this potent God.’
“When she heard those words, she deemed them very strange. She wished to withdraw her hand, but I held it fast, and the glove remained in her cruel hand’s place; and having neither before nor since had any more intimate favour from her, I have fastened this glove upon my heart as the best plaster I could give it. And I have adorned it with the richest rings I have, though the glove itself is wealth that I would not exchange for the kingdom of England, for I deem no happiness on earth so great as to feel it on my breast.”
The Lord de Montmorency, who would have rather had a lady’s hand than her glove, praised his very honourable behaviour, telling him that he was the truest lover he had ever known, and was worthy of better treatment, since he set so much value upon so slight a thing; though perchance, if he had obtained aught better than the glove, the greatness of his love might have made him die of joy. With this the English lord agreed, not suspecting that the Lord de Montmorency was mocking him. (3)
3 Alluding to this story, Brantôme writes as follows in hisDames Galantes: “You have that EnglishMilordin theHundred Tales of the Queen of Navarre, who wore hismistress’s glove at his side, beautifully adorned. I myselfhave known many gentlemen who, before wearing their silkenhose, would beg their ladies and mistresses to try them onand wear them for some eight or ten days, rather more thanless, and who would then themselves wear them in extremeveneration and contentment, both of mind and body.”—Lalanne’sOEuvres de Brantôme, vol. ix. p. 309.—L.
“If all men were so honourable as this one, the ladies might well trust them, since the cost would be merely a glove.”
“I knew the Lord de Montmorency well,” said Geburon, “and I am sure that he would not have cared to fare after the English fashion. Had he been contented with so little, he would not have been so successful in love as he was, for the old song says—
‘Of a cowardly loverNo good is e’er heard.’”
“You may be sure,” said Saffredent, “that the poor lady withdrew her hand with all speed, when she felt the beating of his heart, because she thought that he was about to die, and people say that there is nothing women loathe more than to touch dead bodies.” (4)
4 Most of this sentence, deficient in our MS., is takenfrom MS. No. 1520.—L.
“If you had spent as much time in hospitals as in taverns,” said Ennasuite, “you would not speak in that way, for you would have seen women shrouding dead bodies, which men, bold as they are, often fear to touch.”
“It is true,” said Saffredent, “that there is none upon whom penance has been laid but does the opposite of that wherein he formerly had delight, like a lady I once saw in a notable house, who, to atone for her delight in kissing one she loved, was found at four o’clock in the morning kissing the corpse of a gentleman who had been killed the day before, and whom she had never liked more than any other. Then every one knew that this was a penance for past delights. But as all the good deeds done by women are judged ill by men, I am of opinion that, dead or alive, there should be no kissing except after the fashion that God commands.”
“For my part,” said Hircan, “I care so little about kissing women, except my own wife, that I will assent to any law you please, yet I pity the young folk whom you deprive of this trifling happiness, thus annulling the command of St. Paul, who bids us kissin osculo sancto.” (5)
5Romansxvi. 16; 1Corinthiansxvi. 20; 2Corinthiansxiii. 12; IThessaloniansv. 26. Also 1Peterv. 14.—M.
“If St. Paul had been such a man as you are,” said Nomerfide, “we should indeed have required proof of the Spirit of God that spoke in him.”
“In the end,” said Geburon, “you will doubt Holy Scripture rather than give up one of your petty affectations.”
“God forbid,” said Oisille, “that we should doubt Holy Scripture, but we put small faith in your lies. There is no woman but knows what her belief should be, namely, never to doubt the Word of God or believe the word of man.”
“Yet,” said Simontauit, “I believe that there are more men deceived by women than [women] by men. The slenderness of women’s love towards us keeps them from believing our truths, whilst our exceeding love towards them makes us trust so completely in their falsehoods, that we are deceived before we suspect such a thing to be possible.”
“Methinks,” said Parlamente, “you have been hearing some fool complain of being duped by a wanton woman, for your words carry but little weight, and need the support of an example. If, therefore, you know of one, I give you my place that you may tell it to us. I do not say that we are bound to believe you on your mere word, but it will assuredly not make our ears tingle to hear you speak ill of us, since we know what is the truth.”
“Well, since it is for me to speak,” said Dagoucin, “‘tis I who will tell you the tale.”
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071a. The Gentleman Mocked by The Ladies when Returning from The False Tryst
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A gentleman, through putting too much trust in thetruthfulness of a lady whom he had offended by forsaking herfor others just when she was most in love with him, was, bya false tryst, deceived by her, and bemocked by the wholeCourt.
At the Court of King Francis the First there was a lady (1) of excellent wit, who, by her grace, virtue and pleasantness of speech, had won the hearts of several lovers. With these she right well knew how to pass the time, but without hurt to her honour, conversing with them in such pleasant fashion that they knew not what to think, for those who were the most confident were reduced to despair, whilst those that despaired the most became hopeful. Nevertheless, while fooling most of them, she could not help greatly loving one whom she called her cousin, a name which furnished a pretext for closer fellowship.
1 M. de Lincy surmises that Margaret is referring toherself both here and in the following tale, which concernsthe same lady. His only reason for the supposition, however,is that the lady’s views on certain love matters are akin tothose which the Queen herself professed.—Ed.
However, as there is nothing in this world of firm continuance, their friendship often turned to anger and then was renewed in stronger sort than ever, so that the whole Court could not but be aware of it.
One day the lady, both to let it be seen that she was wholly void of passion, and to vex him, for love of whom she had endured much annoyance, showed him a fairer countenance than ever she had done before. Thereupon the gentleman, who lacked boldness neither in love nor in war, began hotly to press the suit that he many a time previously had addressed to her.
She, pretending to be wholly vanquished by pity, promised to grant his request, and told him that she would with this intent go into her room, which was on a garret floor, where she knew there was nobody. And as soon as he should see that she was gone he was to follow her without fail, for he would find her ready to give proof of the good-will that she bore him.
The gentleman, believing what she said, was exceedingly well pleased, and began to amuse himself with the other ladies until he should see her gone, and might quickly follow her. But she, who lacked naught of woman’s craftiness, betook herself to my Lady Margaret, daughter of the King, and to the Duchess of Montpensier, (2) to whom she said—
“I will if you are willing, show you the fairest diversion you have ever seen.”
2 The former is Margaret of France, Duchess of Savoy andBerry. Born in June 1523, she died in September 1574.—Queen Margaret was her godmother. When only three years old,she was promised in marriage to Louis of Savoy, eldest sonof Duke Charles III., and he dying, she espoused his youngerbrother, Emmanuel Philibert, in July 1549. Graceful andpretty as a child (seeante, vol. i. p. xlviii.), shebecame, thanks to the instruction of the famous Michael del’ Hôpital, one of the most accomplished women of her time,and Brantôme devotes an article to her in hisDamesIllustres(Lalanne, v. viii. pp. 328-37). See also Hilarionde Coste’sÉloges et Vies des Reines, Princesses, &c.,Paris, 1647, vol. ii. p. 278.The Duchess of Montpensier, also referred to above, isJacqueline de Longwick (now Longwy), Countess of Bar-sur-Seine, daughter of J. Ch. de Longwick, Lord of Givry, and ofJane,bâtardeof Angoulême. In 1538 Jacqueline wasmarried to Louis II. de Bourbon, Duke of Montpensier. Shegained great influence at the French Court, both underFrancis I. and afterwards, and De Thou says of her that shewas possessed of great wit and wisdom, far superior to thecentury in which she lived. She died in August 1561, and wasthe mother of Francis I., Duke of Montpensier, sometimescalled the Dauphin of Auvergne, who fought at Jarnac,Moncontour, Arques, and Ivry, against Henry of Navarre.—L.,B. J. and Ed.
They, being by no means enamoured of melancholy, begged that she would tell them what it was.
“You know such a one,” she replied, “as worthy a gentleman as lives, and as bold. You are aware how many ill turns he has done me, and that, just when I loved him most, he fell in love with others, and so caused me more grief than I have ever suffered to be seen. Well, God has now afforded me the means of taking revenge upon him.
“I am forthwith going to my own room, which is overhead, and immediately afterwards, if it pleases you to keep watch, you will see him follow me. When he has passed the galleries, and is about to go up the stairs, I pray you come both to the window and help me to cry ‘Thief!’ You will then see his rage, which, I am sure, will not become him badly, and, even if he does not revile me aloud, I am sure he will none the less do so in his heart.”
This plan was not agreed to without laughter, for there was no gentleman that tormented the ladies more than he did, whilst he was so greatly liked and esteemed by all, that for nothing in the world would any one have run the risk of his raillery.
It seemed, moreover, to the two Princesses that they would themselves share in the glory which the other lady looked to win over this gentleman.
Accordingly, as soon as they saw the deviser of the plot go out, they set themselves to observe the gentleman’s demeanour. But little time went by before he shifted his quarters, and, as soon as he had passed the door, the ladies went out into the gallery, in order that they might not lose sight of him.
Suspecting nothing, he wrapped his cloak about his neck, so as to hide his face, and went down the stairway to the court, but, seeing some one whom he did not desire to have for witness, he came back by another way, and then went down into the court a second time. The ladies saw everything without being perceived by him, and when he reached the stairway, by which he thought he might safely reach his sweetheart’s chamber, they went to the window, whence they immediately perceived the other lady, who began crying out ‘Thief!’ at the top of her voice; whereupon the two ladies below answered her so loudly that their voices were heard all over the castle.
I leave you to imagine with what vexation the gentleman fled to his lodgings. He was not so well muffled as not to be known by those who were in the mystery, and they often twitted him with it, as did even the lady who had done him this ill turn, saying that she had been well revenged upon him.
It happened, however, that he was so ready with his replies and evasions as to make them believe that he had quite suspected the plan, and had only consented to visit the lady in order to furnish them with some diversion, for, said he, he would not have taken so much trouble for her sake, seeing that his love for her had long since flown. The ladies would not admit the truth of this, so that the point is still in doubt; nevertheless, it is probable that he believed the lady. And since he was so wary and so bold that few men of his age and time could match and none could surpass him (as has been proved by his very brave and knightly death), (3) you must, it seems to me, confess that men of honour love in such wise as to be often duped, by placing too much trust in the truthfulness of the ladies.
3 This naturally brings Bonnivet to mind, though of coursethe gay, rash admiral was not the only Frenchman of the timewho spent his life in making love and waging war.—Ed.
“In good faith,” said Ennasuite, “I commend this lady for the trick she played; for when a man is loved by a lady and forsakes her for another, her vengeance cannot be too severe.”
“Yes,” said Parlamente, “if she is loved by him; but there are some who love men without being certain that they are loved in return, and when they find that their sweethearts love elsewhere, they call them fickle. It therefore happens that discreet women are never deceived by such talk, for they give no heed or belief even to those people who speak truly, lest they should prove to be liars, seeing that the true and the false speak but one tongue.”
“If all women were of your opinion,” said Simon-tault, “the gentlemen might pack up their prayers at once; but, for all that you and those like you may say, we shall never believe that women are as unbelieving as they are fair. And in this wise we shall live as content as you would fain render us uneasy by your maxims.”
“Truly,” said Longarine, “knowing as I well do who the lady is that played that fine trick upon the gentleman, it is impossible for me not to believe in any craftiness on her part. Since she did not spare her husband, ‘twere fitting she should not spare her lover.”
“Her husband, say you?” said Simontault. “You know, then, more than I do, and so, since you wish it, I give you my place that you may tell us your opinion of the matter.”
“And since you wish it,” said Longarine, “I will do so.”
078.jpg Tailpiece
079a. The Lady Discovering Her Husband With The Waiting-woman