2 We are asked to believe that Oisille is none other thanthe Lady Regent (Louise of Savoy), but is it likely shewould thus speak of herself? We can scarcely conceive QueenMargaret perpetrating such a flagrant anachronism.—Ed.
“It were indeed a fine thing,” said Hircan, “that there should be greater dread of a woman’s eyes than of the Holy Sacrament, which, if it be not received in faith and charity, brings with it eternal damnation.”
“Those,” said Parlamente, “who are not inspired by God are, I promise you, in greater dread of the temporal than of the spiritual powers. And I believe that the poor creature was brought to mend her ways rather by her imprisonment and the thought of seeing her Canon no more, than by any remonstrance that might have been made to her.”
“Nay,” said Simontault, “you have forgotten the chief cause of her return to her husband, which was that the Canon was eighty years old, whilst her husband was younger than herself; so the worthy lady had the best of all her bargains. Had the Canon been young, she would not have been willing to forsake him, and the admonitions of the ladies would have been as ineffectual as the sacraments.”
“Further,” said Nomerfide, “I think she did well not to confess her sin so readily; such an offence ought to be humbly acknowledged to God, but stoutly denied before men. Even though it be true, still, by deception and swearing, doubt may be cast upon it.”
“Not so,” said Longarine. “A sin can scarcely be so secret that it will not become revealed, unless God in His pity conceal it, as in the case of those who for love of Himself have truly repented.”
“And what,” said Hircan, “will you say of those women who have no sooner done a deed of folly than they tell some one about it?”
“I think that a strange thing,” answered Longarine, “and a sign that sin is not displeasing to them. If, as I said, a sin is not covered by the mercy of God, it cannot be denied before men; there are many who, delighting in such talk, glory to make their vices known, whilst others who contradict themselves in this way become their own accusers.”
“If you know any such instance,” said Saffredent, “I give you my place and beg you to tell it us.”
“Listen then,” said Longarine.
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119a. The Gentleman’s Spur Catching in The Sheet
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A lady’s tongue tripped so awkwardly whilst she was tellinga story, as if of another, to a dame of high degree, thather honour thenceforward bore a stain which she could neverremove.
In the time of King Francis the First there lived a lady of the blood royal, who was endowed with honour, virtue and beauty, and well knew how to tell a story with grace and to laugh at such as might be told to her. (1) This lady being at one of her houses, all her subjects and neighbours came to see her; for she was as much liked as it were possible for woman to be.
1 M. de Lincy thinks that this lady may be Louise of Savoy,who was very fond of listening to stories of an equivocalcharacter. This, it may be pointed out, is one of thereasons why the commentators of theHeptameronsuppose herto be Oisille, though the latter in the conversationalpassages following the tales displays considerable pruderyand devoutness. That Louise was a woman of extremely amoroustendency is well known; we need, indeed, no better proof ofit than her unseemly passion for the Constable de Bourbonwhen she was five-and-forty years of age. If she be the ladyof royal blood spoken of above, the incidents of the talemay have occurred in the Bourbonnais, a considerable portionof which passed into her hands after the flight of theConstable from France. It will be noted that allusion ismade to the lady’s subjects, showing that she exercised afeudal sway. As one of the commentators of theHeptameronhas pointed out, Queen Margaret always saw her mother—that“donna terribilissima!” as De Lussy called her—in such anideal light that M. de Lincy’s surmise may well be a correctone despite the attributes of honour, virtue and beautybestowed on the lady whom she speaks of.—Ed.
Among others there came a lady who hearkened whilst the rest told every story they could think of in order to amuse the Princess. This lady then resolved that she would not be behind the others, and accordingly said—
“Madam, I will tell you a fine story, but you must promise me not to speak of it.”
Then she forthwith continued—
“The story, madam, is on my conscience a perfectly true one, and concerns a married lady who lived in all honour with her husband, although he was old and she was young. A gentleman who was her neighbour, seeing her married to this old man, fell in love with her, and importuned her for several years; but never received of her any reply save such as a virtuous woman should make. One day the gentleman bethought him that if he could take her at a disadvantage she might perchance be less harsh towards him, and, after he had for a long while weighed the danger that he might run, his love for the lady wholly banished his fears, and he resolved to find a time and place. He kept excellent watch, and so one morning, when the lady’s husband was going to another of his houses, and leaving at daybreak by reason of the heat, the young gallant came to the house, where he found the lady asleep in her bed, and perceived that the serving-women were gone out of the room.
“Then, without having sense enough to fasten the door, he got into the lady’s bed all booted and spurred as he was, and when she awoke, she was as distressed as she could possibly be. But in spite of any remonstrance that she could make to him, he took her by force, saying that if she should make the matter known he would tell every one that she had sent for him; and at this the lady was so greatly afraid that she durst not cry out. Afterwards, on some of her women coming in, he rose in haste and would have been perceived by none if his spur, which had become fastened in the upper sheet, had not drawn it right off, leaving the lady quite naked in her bed.”
So far the lady had told the story as if of another, but at the end she involuntarily said—
“Never was a woman so confounded as I was, when I found myself lying quite naked.”
At these last words the lady, who had hitherto hearkened to the story without laughing, could not refrain from doing so, and said—
“By what I can see, you are well qualified to tell the tale.”
The poor lady tried in every possible way to clear her honour, but it was already flown so far away that she was never able to recall it.
“I assure you, ladies, that had she felt any deep displeasure in doing such a deed, she would have desired to forget it. But, as I have told you, sin will of itself be discovered before it could otherwise be known, unless it be hidden by the mantle which, as David says, makes man blessed.”
“In good sooth,” said Ennasuite, “she was the greatest fool I have ever heard of, to make the others laugh at her own expense.”
“I do not deem it strange,” said Parlamente, “that the word should follow the deed, for it is easier to say than to do.”
“Why,” said Geburon, “what sin had she committed? She was asleep in her bed, he threatened her with shame and death; Lucrèce, who is so highly praised, did just the same.”
“That is true,” said Parlamente, “and I confess that there is none too righteous to fall. But when one has felt great offence in the deed, the same holds good of the recollection; and whereas Lucrèce to efface the latter killed herself, this foolish woman tried to make others laugh.”
“Nevertheless,” said Nomerfide, “it seems that she was a virtuous woman, seeing that she had been many times entreated but would never consent, so that the gentleman must needs resort to treachery and force in order to wrong her.”
“What!” said Parlamente. “Do you think that a woman has answered for her honour, when she gives herself up after refusing two or three times? There would then be many virtuous women among those that are deemed the opposite, for many of them have been known to refuse for a long while those to whom their hearts had been given, some doing this through fear for their honour, and others in order to make themselves still more ardently loved and esteemed. No account, therefore, should be made of a woman unless she stands firm to the end. But if a man refuse a beautiful girl, do you regard that as great virtue?”
“Truly,” said Oisille, “if a young and lusty man so refused, I should hold it worthy of high praise, but none the less difficult of belief.”
“Yet,” said Dagoucin, “I know one who refused to partake in amours that were sought after by all his comrades.”
“I pray you,” said Longarine, “take my place and tell us the tale, yet remember that you must here utter the truth.”
“I promise you,” said Dagoucin, “that I will tell it in all its simplicity, without any colouring or disguise.”
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125a. The King Asking The Young Lord to Join his Banquet
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A gentleman’s refusal of an amour that was sought after byall his comrades, was imputed to him as great virtue, andhis wife loved him and esteemed him in consequence far morethan before. (1)
In the city of Paris there lived four girls, of whom two were sisters, and such was their beauty, youth and freshness, that they were run after by all the gallants. A gentleman, however, who at that time held the office of Provost of Paris (2) from the King, seeing that his master was young, of an age to desire such company, so cleverly contrived matters with all four of the damsels that each, thinking herself intended for the King, agreed to what the aforesaid Provost desired. This was that they should all of them be present at a feast to which he invited his master.
1 This story, omitted by Boaistuau, was included inGruget’s edition of theHeptameron.—L.2 This is John de la Barre, already alluded to in Tale I.TheJournal d’un Bourgeois de Paristells us that he wasborn in Paris of poor parents, and became a favourite ofFrancis I., who appointed him Bailiff of the capital,without requiring him to pay any of the dues attaching tothe office. From the roll of the royal household for 1522,we also find that he was then a gentleman of the bed chamberwith 1200livressalary, master of the wardrobe (a postworth 200livres) and governor of the pages, for the boardand clothing of whom he received 5000livresannually. In1526 he became Provost as well as Bailiff of Paris, the twooffices then being amalgamated. He was further created Countof Etampes, and acquired the lordship of Veretz, bestremembered by its associations with the murder of Paul LouisCourier. La Barre fought at Pavia, was taken prisoner withthe King, and remained his constant companion during hiscaptivity. Several letters of his, dating from this periodand of great historical interest, are still extant; some ofthem have been published by Champollion-Figeac (Captivitéde François Ier) and Génin (Lettres de Marguerite, &c).Under date 1533 (o. s.) the “Bourgeois de Paris” writes inhisJournal: “At the beginning of March there died inParis, at the house of Monsieur Poncher, Monsieur le Prévostde Paris, named de La Barre.... The King was then in Paris,at his chateau of the Louvre, and there was great pomp atthe obsequies; and he was borne to his lordship of Veretz,near Tours, that he might be buried there.” Numerousparticulars concerning La Barre will also be found in M. deLaborde’sComptes des Bâtiments du Roi au XVIeme Siècle.—L. and Ed.
He told the latter his plan, which was approved both by the Prince and by two other great personages of the Court, all three agreeing together to share in the spoil.
While they were looking for a fourth comrade, there arrived a handsome and honourable lord who was ten years younger than the others. He was invited to the banquet, but although he accepted with a cheerful countenance, in his heart he had no desire for it. For on the one part he had a wife who was the mother of handsome children, and with whom he lived in great happiness, and in such peacefulness that on no account would he have had her suspect evil of him. And on the other hand he was the lover of one of the handsomest ladies of her time in France, whom he loved and esteemed so greatly that all other women seemed to him ugly beside her.
In his early youth, before he was married, he had found it impossible to gaze upon and associate with other women, however beautiful they might be; for he took more delight in gazing upon his sweetheart, and in perfectly loving her, than in having all that another might have given him.
This lord, then, went to his wife and told her secretly of the enterprise that his master had in hand, saying that he would rather die than do what he had promised. For (he told her) just as there was no living man whom he would not venture to attack in anger, although he would rather die than commit a causeless and wilful murder unless his honour compelled him to it; even so, unless driven by extreme love, such as may serve to blind virtuous men, he would rather die than break his marriage vow to gratify another.
On hearing these words of his, and finding that so much honour dwelt in one so young, his wife loved and esteemed him more than she had ever done before, and inquired how he thought he might best excuse himself, since Princes often frown on those who do not praise what they like.
“I have always heard,” he replied, “that a wise man has a journey or a sickness in his sleeve for use in time of need. I have therefore resolved that I will feign a grievous sickness four or five days beforehand, and in this matter your countenance may render me true service.”
“Tis a worthy and holy hypocrisy,” said his wife, “and I will not fail to serve you with the saddest face I can command; for he who can avoid offending God and angering the Prince is fortunate indeed.”
As it was resolved, so was it done, and the King was very sorry to hear from the wife of her husband’s sickness. This, however, lasted no long time; for, on account of certain business which arose, the King disregarded his pleasure to attend to his duty, and betook himself away from Paris.
However, one day, remembering their unfinished undertaking, he said to the young lord:—
“We were very foolish to leave so suddenly without seeing the four girls who are declared to be the fairest in my kingdom.”
“I am very glad,” replied the young lord, “that you failed in the matter, for I was in great fear that, by reason of my sickness, I should be the only one to miss so pleasant an adventure.”
By reason of this answer the King never suspected the dissimulation of the young lord, who was thenceforward loved by his wife more dearly than he had ever been before.
Hereupon Parlamente began to laugh, and could not hold from saying—
“He would have loved his wife better if he had done this for love of her alone. But in any case he is worthy of great praise.”
“It seems to me,” said Hircan, “that it is no great merit in a man to keep his chastity for love of his wife, inasmuch as there are many reasons which in a manner compel him to do so. In the first place, God commands it; his marriage vow binds him to it, and, further, surfeited nature is not liable to temptation or desire as necessity is. But when the unfettered love that a man bears towards a mistress of whom he has no delight, and no other happiness save that of seeing her and speaking with her, and from whom he often receives harsh replies—when this love is so loyal and steadfast that nothing can ever make it change, I say that such chastity is not simply praiseworthy but miraculous.”
“‘Tis no miracle in my opinion,” said Oisille, “for when the heart is plighted, nothing is impossible to the body.”
“True,” said Hircan; “to bodies which have become those of angels.”
“I do not speak only of those,” said Oisille, “who by the grace of God are wholly transformed into Himself, but of the grosser spirits that we see here below among men. And, if you give heed, you will find that those who have set their hearts and affections upon seeking after the perfection of the sciences, have forgotten not only the lust of the flesh, but even the most needful matters, such as food and drink; for so long as the soul is stirred within the body, so long does the flesh continue as though insensible. Thence comes it that those who love handsome, honourable and virtuous women have such happiness of spirit in seeing them and speaking with them, that the flesh is lulled in all its desires. Those who cannot feel this happiness are the carnally-minded, who, wrapped in their exceeding fatness, cannot tell whether they have a soul or not. But, when the body is in subjection to the spirit, it is as though heedless of the failings of the flesh, and the beliefs of such persons may render them insensible of the same. I knew a gentleman who, to show that he loved his mistress more dearly than did any other man, proved it to all his comrades by holding his bare fingers in the flame of a candle. And then, with his eyes fixed upon his mistress, he remained firm until he had burned himself to the bone, and yet said that he had felt no hurt.”
“Methinks,” said Geburon, “that the devil whose martyr he was ought to have made a St. Lawrence of him; for there are few whose love-flame is hot enough to keep them from fearing that of the smallest taper. But if a lady had suffered me to endure so much hurt for her sake, I should either have sought a rich reward or else have taken my love away from her.”
“So,” said Parlamente, “you would have your hour after the lady had had hers? That was what was done by a gentleman of the neighbourhood of Valencia in Spain, whose story was told to me by a captain, a right worthy man.”
“I pray you, madam,” said Dagoucin, “take my place and tell it us, for I am sure that it must be a good one.”
“This story, ladies,” said Parlamente, “will teach you both to think twice when you are inclined to give a refusal and to lay aside the thought that the present will always continue; and so, knowing that it is subject to mutation, you will have a care for the time to come.”
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133a. The Lady Swooning in The Arms of The Gentleman Of Valencia Who Had Become a Monk
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After a lady had for the space of five or six years madetrial of the love that a certain gentleman bore her, shedesired to have a still stronger proof of it, and reducedhim to such despair that he turned monk, on which accountshe was not able to win him back again when she would fainhave done so.
In the city of Valencia there lived a gentleman, who for the space of five or six years had loved a lady so perfectly that the honour and conscience of neither of them had taken any hurt; for his intent was to have her as his wife, and this was reasonable, seeing that he was handsome, rich and of good descent. But, before he became her lover, he first inquired concerning her own mind, whereupon she declared herself willing to marry according to the counsels of her kinsfolk. The latter, being come together for the purpose, deemed the marriage a very reasonable one provided that the maiden was herself disposed to it; but she—whether because she thought to do better or because she wished to hide her love for him—-made some difficulty, and the company separated, not without regret at having failed to conclude a match so well suited to both parties.
The most grieved of all was the poor gentleman, who would have borne his misfortune with patience had he thought that the fault lay with the kinsfolk and not with her; but he knew the truth, and the knowledge was to him worse than death. So, without speaking to his sweetheart or to any other person, he withdrew to his own house, and, after setting his affairs in order, betook himself to a solitary spot, where he strove to forget his love and change it wholly to that love of our Lord which were truly a higher duty than the other.
During this time he received no tidings of his mistress or her kindred, and he therefore resolved that, since he had failed to obtain the happiest life he could hope for, he would choose the most austere and disagreeable that he could imagine. With this sad intent, which might well have been called despair, he went and became a monk in the monastery of St. Francis. This monastery was not far from the dwellings of divers of his kinsfolk, who, on hearing of his desperate condition, did all that in them lay to hinder his purpose; but this was so firmly rooted in his heart that it was not possible to turn him from it.
Nevertheless, as the source of his distemper was known to them, they determined to seek the cure, and so repaired to her who was the cause of his sudden devoutness. She was greatly astonished and grieved by this mischance, for, in refusing for a time, she had thought only to test his affection, not to lose it for ever. Seeing now the evident risk that she ran of doing this last, she sent him a letter, which, ill-translated, was as follows:—
“Since love, if tested not full needfully,Steadfast and faithful is not shown to be,By length of time my heart would that assayWhereon itself was set to love alway—To wit, a husband with that true love filledSuch as no lapsing time has ever killed.This, then, was the sole reason that I drewMy kin to hinder for a year or twoThat closest tie which lasts till life is not,And whereby woe is oftentimes begot.Yet sought I not to have you wholly sentAway; such was in no wise my intent,For none save you could I have e’er adoredOr looked to as my husband and my lord.But woe is me, what tidings reach mine ear!That you, to lead the cloistered life austere,Are gone with speech to none; whereat the painThat ever holds me, now can brook no rein,But forces me mine own estate to slightFor that which yours aforetime was of right;To seek him out who once sought me alone,And win him who myself has sometimes won.Nay then, my love, life of the life in me,For loss of whom I fain would cease to be,Turn hither, graciously, those eyes of painAnd trace those wandering footsteps back again.Leave the grey robe and its austerity,Come back and taste of that felicityWhich often you desired, and which to-dayTime has nor slain, nor swept away.For you alone I’ve kept myself; and I,Lacking your presence, cannot choose but die.Come back then; in your sweetheart have belief,And for past memories find cool reliefIn holy marriage-ties. Ah! then, my dear,To me, not to your pride give ready ear,And rest of this assured, I had no thoughtTo give, sweetheart, to you offence in aught,But only yearned your faithfulness to proveAnd then to make you happy with my love.But now that through this trial, free from scathe,Are come your steadfastness and patient faith,And all that loyal love to me is known,Which at the last has made me yours alone,Come, my beloved, take what is your dueAnd wholly yield to me, as I to you!”
This letter, brought by a friend of hers with every remonstrance that it was possible to make, was received and read by the gentleman friar with such sadness of countenance, such sighs and such tears, that it seemed as though he would drown and burn the poor epistle. But he made no reply to it, except to tell the messenger that the mortification of his exceeding passion had cost him so dear as to have taken from him both the wish to live and the fear to die. He therefore requested her who had been the cause of this, that since she had not chosen to satisfy his passionate longings, she would, now that he was rid of them, abstain from tormenting him, and rest content with the evil which was past. For that evil he could find no remedy but the choice of an austere life, which by continual penance might bring him to forget his grief, and, by fasts and disciplines, subdue his body, till the thought of death should be to him but a sovereign consolation. Above all, he begged that he might never hear of her, since he found the mere remembrance of her name a purgatory not to be endured.
The gentleman went back with this mournful reply, and reported it to the maiden who did not hear it without intolerable sorrow. But Love, which will not suffer the spirit utterly to fail, gave her the thought that, if she could see him, her words and presence might be of more effect than the writing. She therefore, with her father and the nearest of her kin, went to the monastery where he abode. She had left nothing in her box that might set off her beauty, for she felt sure that, could he but once look at her and hear her, the fire that had so long dwelt in both their hearts must of necessity be kindled again in greater strength than before.
Coming thus into the monastery towards the end of vespers, she sent for him to come to her in a chapel that was in the cloister. He, knowing not who it was that sought him, went in all ignorance to the sternest battle in which he had ever been. When she saw him so pale and wan that she could hardly recognise him, yet filled with grace, in no whit less winning than of yore, Love made her stretch out her arms to embrace him, whilst her pity at seeing him in such a plight so enfeebled her heart, that she sank swooning to the floor.
The poor monk, who was not void of brotherly charity, lifted her up and set her upon a seat in the chapel. Although he had no less need of aid than she had, he feigned to be unaware of her passion, and so strengthened his heart in the love of God against the opportunities now present with him, that, judging by his countenance, he seemed not to know what was actually before him. Having recovered from her weakness, she turned upon him her beautiful, piteous eyes, which were enough to soften a rock, and began to utter all such discourse as she believed apt to draw him from the place in which he now was. He replied as virtuously as he was able; but at last, finding that his heart was being softened by his sweetheart’s abundant tears, and perceiving that Love, the cruel archer whose pains he long had known, was ready with his golden dart to deal him fresh and more deadly wounds, he fled both from Love and from his sweetheart, like one whose only resource lay, indeed, in flight.
When he was shut up in his room, not desiring to let her go without some settlement of the matter, he wrote her a few words in Spanish, which seem to me so excellent in their matter that I would not by translating them mar their grace. These were brought to her by a little novice, who found her still in the chapel and in such despair that, had it been lawful, she too would have remained there and turned friar. But when she saw the words, which were these—
“Volvete don venesti, anima mia,Que en las tristas vidas es la mia,” (1)
she knew that all hope was gone, and she resolved to follow the advice of him and her friends, and so returned home, there to lead a life as melancholy as that of her lover in his monastery was austere.
1 “Return whence thou earnest, my soul,for among the sad lives is mine.”’
“You see, ladies, what vengeance the gentleman took upon his harsh sweetheart, who, thinking to try him, reduced him to such despair that, when she would have regained him, she could not do so.”
“I am sorry,” said Nomerfide, “that he did not lay aside his gown and marry her. It would, I think, have been a perfect marriage.”
“In good sooth,” said Simontault, “I think he was very wise. Anyone who well considers what marriage is will deem it no less grievous than a monkish life. Moreover, being so greatly weakened by fasts and abstinence, he feared to take upon him a burden of that kind which lasts all through life.”
“Methinks,” said Hircan, “she wronged so feeble a man by tempting him to marriage, for ‘tis too much for the strongest man alive; but had she spoken to him of love, free from any obligation but that of the will, there is no friar’s cord that would not have been untied. However, since she sought to draw him out of purgatory by offering him hell, I think that he was quite right to refuse her, and to let her feel the pain that her own refusal had cost him.”
“By my word,” said Ennasuite, “there are many who, thinking to do better than their fellows, do either worse or else the very opposite of what they desire.”
“Truly,” said Geburon, “you remind me—though, indeed, the matter is not greatly to the point—of a woman who did the opposite of what she desired, and so caused a great uproar in the church of St. John of Lyons.”
“I pray you,” said Parlamente, “take my place and tell us about it.”
“My story,” said Geburon, “will not be so long or so piteous as the one we have heard from Parlamente.”
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143a. The Old Woman Startled by The Waking of The Soldier
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Though the priests of St. John of Lyons would fain haveconcealed it, the falsity of a miracle was brought to lightthrough an old woman’s folly becoming known. (1)
In the church of St. John of Lyons there is a very dark chapel, and inside it a stone tomb with figures of great personages raised life-like upon it, whilst several men-at-arms lie all around it.
1 We believe that the incident here narrated occurred earlyin 1525, when Margaret is known to have been at Lyons. Sheand her husband (on his return from Pavia) resided there atthe house of the Obédiencier de St. Just, and it was in thechurch of St. Just that the Duke of Alençon was buried.Doubtless it was during his illness that thenovenaalluded to in the final tale of theHeptameronwasperformed by Queen Margaret at the church of St. John ofLyons, where the two most important chapels, according toQuincarnon’sAntiquités et la fondation de la Métropoledes Gaules, &c., Lyons, 1673, were the Most Holy Eucharist,or Bourbon chapel, built in 1449 by Charles de Bourbon,Primate of Gaul, and the Holy Sepulchre, or Good Fridaychapel, erected at the beginning of the fifteenth century byPhilip de Turey, Archbishop of Lyons. Unfortunately thechurch of St. John was in 1652 devastated by the Huguenots,who in their insensate fury destroyed almost all the tombs.It is therefore now impossible to identify the chapel andtomb to which the Queen of Navarre refers in the abovestory, though her allusion to the dimness of the light wouldincline us to place the incident she recounts in theChapelle du St. Sépulcre.—L. and Ed.
One day a soldier, walking in the church at the very height of summer, felt inclined to sleep, and, looking at this dark, cool chapel, resolved to go and guard the tomb in sleep like the rest; (2) and accordingly he lay down beside them. Now it chanced that a very pious old woman came in while his sleep was the soundest, and having performed her devotions, holding a lighted taper in her hand, she sought to fix this taper to the tomb. Finding that the sleeping man was nearest to her, she tried to set it upon his forehead, thinking that it was of stone; but the wax would not stick to such stone as this, whereupon the worthy dame, believing that the reason of it was the coldness of the statue, applied the flame to the sleeper’s forehead, that she might the better fix the taper on it. At this, however, the statue, which was not without feeling, began to cry out.
2 Meaning the recumbent statues of the men-at-arms.—Ed.
The good woman was then in exceeding fear, and set herself to shout, “A miracle! a miracle!” until all who were in the church ran, some to ring the bells, and the rest to view the miracle. The good woman forthwith took them to see the statue that had stirred, whereupon many found food for laughter; though the greater number were unable to feel any content, inasmuch as they had really determined to make profit out of the tomb, and to gain as much money by it as by the crucifix on their pulpit, which is said to have spoken. (3) But when the woman’s folly became known the farce came to an end. If all knew of their follies, they would not be accounted holy nor their miracles true. And I would beg you, ladies, to see henceforward to what saints you offer your candles. (4)
3 The crucifix in the church of St. John was mainly ofsilver, and, according to Quincarnon, at the time of aHuguenot outbreak at Lyons it was thrown to the ground by aCalvinist minister named Ruffy, who, after reducing it tofragments, carried all the precious metal away with him.—M.4 The latter portion of this story and all the dialoguethat follows it are omitted by Boaistuau in his edition.Gruget inserted the dialogue, but he did not dare to printthe passage respecting the talking crucifix.—L.
“‘Tis notable,” said Hircan, “that, whatever the matter in question may be, women always do wrong.”
“Is it wrong,” asked Nomerfide, “to bring candles to a tomb?”
“Yes,” said Hircan, “if the flame be turned against a man’s forehead; for nothing good should be called good if it be attended with evil. You may be sure that the poor woman thought she had made a fine gift to God with her little candle.”
“I look not to the gift,” said Oisille, “but to the heart that offers it. Perhaps this worthy woman had more love for God than those who offer great torches; for, as the Gospel says, she gave of her need.”
“Still, I no not believe,” said Saffredent, “that God, who is sovereign wisdom, can be pleased with the foolishness of women. Although simplicity is pleasing to Him, I see from the Scriptures that He despises the ignorant; and if He commands us to be as harmless as the dove, He none the less commands us to be wise like the serpent.”
“For my part,” said Oisille, “I do not call the woman ignorant who brings her candle or burning taper into the presence of God, and makes amends for her wrongdoing on bended knees before her sovereign Lord, confessing her unworthiness and with steadfast hope seeking pity and salvation.”
“Would to God,” said Dagoucin, “that all understood it in the same way as you; but I do not believe that these poor fools do it with the intent you say.”
“The women,” said Oisille, “who are least able to speak are just those who are most sensible of the love and will of God; wherefore ‘tis well to judge none but ourselves.”
Ennasuite laughed and said—“‘Tis no wonderful thing to have frightened a sleeping varlet, since women of as lowly condition have frightened noble Princes, without putting fire to their foreheads.”
“I am sure,” said Geburon, “that you know some such story, which you are willing to relate; wherefore, if it please you, you shall take my place.”
“The tale will not be a long one,” said Ennasuite, “but, could I recount it just as it happened, you would have no desire to weep.”
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149a. The Old Serving-woman Explaining Her Mistake To The Duke and Duchess of Vendôme
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The Duke of Vendôme and the Princess of Navarre, whilstresting together one afternoon, were surprised by an oldserving-woman, who took them for a prothonotary and a damselbetween whom she suspected some affection; and, through thisfine justicement, a matter, of which intimates wereignorant, was made known to strangers.
In the year when the Duke of Vendôme married the Princess of Navarre, (1) the King and Queen, their parents, after feasting at Vendôme, went with them into Guienne, and, visiting a gentleman’s house where there were many honourable and beautiful ladies, the newly married pair danced so long in this excellent company that they became weary, and, withdrawing to their chamber, lay down in their clothes upon the bed and fell asleep, doors and windows being shut and none remaining with them.