Once the Queen had learnt the truth about the marriage from the bastard’s letter, she sent for Rolandine and, far from addressing her as ‘cousin’, she told her repeatedly, her face contorted with rage, that she was a ‘miserable wretch’, and accused her of bringing dishonour upon her father’s house, upon her relatives and upon her mistress, the Queen. Rolandine, who had long been aware that her mistress had little affection for her, gave as good as she received. As there was little love between them, there was also little room for fear. It seemed to her that this reprimand in the presence of several other people sprang not from loving concern, but from the desire to humiliate, and that the woman who was administering it was moved not by displeasure at the offence, but by pleasure in the punishment. Consequently, when she replied, she was as calm and composed as the Queen was violent and vehement.
‘Madame, if you were not already fully aware of your own feelings,’ she began, ‘I would spell out to you the hostile attitude you have shown for a long time now towards Monsieur my father and towards myself. However, you know perfectly well what your own feelings are, and you will not be surprised that everybody else has a fair inkling of them too. For my part, Madame, I certainly know the way you feel, and know to my cost. If you had favoured me in the same way as you favoured the other girls, who were not even as closely related as I am, I would by now have been married in a manner that would have brought honour to yourself as well as to me. However, as far as your favour is concerned I have been totally ignored, so that every single good match that I might have made slipped away before my very eyes, thanks to my father’s negligence and to your lack of regard for me. Consequently I fell into such a state of despair, that had it not been for my poor health I would certainly have entered the religious life to avoid the continual suffering that your harsh treatment caused me. While I was in this state of despair I was sought out by a man whose birth would have been the equal of mine, if only love between two persons carried as much esteem as a ring on the finger, for, as you well know, his father was more elevated than mine. He has for a long time loved and cherished me. You, Madame, have never forgiven me even the slightest fault, nor have you ever praised me for any good thing I may have done. Yet you know from your own experience that I was not one to be always talking about love and worldly vanities, and that I was fully resolved to lead a life more religious than otherwise. And now, Madame, you are surprised that I converse with a gentleman who is as unhappy in life as I am, a man in whose company I saw nothing other than spiritual solace, and sought nothing other than that. When I realized that this was taken from me, I again fell into such a state of despair that eventually I made up my mind to pursue my own happiness, however much you may desire to take it from me. It was then that we talked of marriage, and the words that we spoke were consummated in promises and the exchange of rings. It therefore seems to me, Madame, that you do me a grievous wrong, when you say that I am wicked, for throughout this deep and perfect love of mine, in spite of the opportunities that have presented themselves, never once has there been between this man and myself anything more intimate than a kiss. For it was my hope that God in His mercy would enable me to win my father’s heart and obtain his consent before the consummation of the marriage. I have offended neither God nor my conscience, for I have waited till the age of thirty to see what you and my father would do for me. Throughout my youth I have kept myself in such virtue and chastity that no man alive could possibly reproach me in any way. Finally, in the light of my own reason with which I am endowed by God, realizing that I am old, and have no hope of finding a match worthy of my station, I have resolved to take a husband according to my own inclinations, not in order to satisfy the concupiscence of the eye, for as you know he is not handsome, nor to satisfy the lusts of the flesh, for there has been no carnal consummation, nor yet to satisfy pride and worldly ambition, for he is poor and has no prospects. No, my sole considerations were the virtue with which he is imbued, for which no one can deny him praise, and the deep love which he has borne me, a love which gives me hope that with him I will find kindness and contentment. I considered carefully the good and the evil that might befall me, and finally decided upon the course that seemed to me the best. For two long years I pondered this in my heart. My decision was to use up the rest of my days in his company, and I am determined to hold firm to this resolve, so firm indeed that no torment that I might endure, not even death itself, would make me swerve from what was in my mind. So, Madame, you will be pleased to excuse me for an eminently excusable offence, and permit me to enjoy the peace I hope to find with him.’
Seeing that Rolandine was resolute and that she meant every word she said, the Queen was quite incapable of making a reasonable reply. She burst into tears and went on raging at Rolandine, making accusations and hurling insults at her.
‘Miserable wretch that you are! Instead of being humble and sorry for the serious offence you have committed, you dare to speak in this outrageous fashion with never a tear in your eye! That shows how obstinate you are and how hard your heart is! But if the King and your father heed my words, they’ll put you where you’ll be obliged to sing another tune!’
‘Madame, since you accuse me of speaking outrageously,’ replied Rolandine, ‘I shall remain silent, unless it pleases you to give me leave to answer you.’
Having been given the order to speak, she then went on: ‘It does not behove me, Madame, to address you in any way that is outrageous or lacking in the respect that I owe you, for you are my mistress and the greatest princess in Christendom. Nor has it ever been my desire or intention to do so. However, I have no advocate to speak in my defence. My only advocate is the truth, the truth which is known to me alone, and I am bound to declare it to you fearlessly, in the hope that once it is known to you, you will think better of me than to call me by the names you have so far been pleased to use. I am not afraid that any mortal creature should hear how I have conducted myself in the affair with which I am charged, since I know that there has been no offence either to God or to my honour. It is this that makes me speak fearlessly, for I am sure that He who sees my heart is with me, and if such a judge [is] in my favour, then indeed I would be wrong to fear those who are subject to His judgement. Why then should I weep? My heart and my conscience are clear in this matter. Far from being sorry for anything I have done, I would act exactly as I have acted, if I had to choose again. But you, Madame, you have very good reason to be weeping now. Not only did you do me grave injustices when I was young, but you have just committed another grave injustice against me in publicly accusing me of an offence that ought more properly to be imputed to yourself. If it were the case that I had sinned against God, the King, yourself, my parents and my own conscience, then indeed I should be obdurate not to weep tears of repentance. But there is no reason at all why I should weep for something that is holy, just and good, and which would never have been known to anyone except as something entirely honourable, were it not for the fact that you prematurely made it common knowledge [and turned it into a scandal] – an act which demonstrates that you are more interested in bringing about my dishonour than in protecting the honour of your own house and kindred. However, since such is your desire, I shall not contradict you. For whatever punishment you may choose to order, I shall derive as much pleasure from my undeserved suffering as you will derive in inflicting it. So, Madame, give orders to Monsieur my father to impose whatever tortures you think fit! I am sure that he will not fail to carry them out. At least I [shall] have the satisfaction of seeing him carry out your wishes to the sole end of bringing me unhappiness, the satisfaction of seeing him obediently applying himself to do me harm, exactly as in the past he has neglected my well-being to do your bidding. But I have a Father in Heaven, who, I know, will grant me patience enough to endure the evils which I see you preparing for me, and in Him alone do I place my trust.’
The Queen, beside herself with rage, ordered Rolandine to be taken out of her sight and shut up alone in a room w
here it would be impossible for her to speak to anyone. However, they did not deprive her of her gouvernante, and through her she was able to inform the bastard of what had befallen her and ask his advice on what she should do. The bastard, thinking that the services he had rendered the King in the past might stand in his favour, made his way post-haste to the court. He found the King out in the country and told him the truth about what had happened, requesting that his majesty would look kindly on a nobleman of slender means and appease the Queen, so that the marriage might be consummated. The King made no other reply than to say: ‘Do you assure me that you have married her?’
‘Yes, Sire,’ answered the bastard, ‘but only with “words in the present”, and if it please you, proper conclusion shall be made.’*
The King looked down, and saying no more, went back to his château. No sooner was he there than he instructed his captain of the guards to take the bastard prisoner. However, a friend of the bastard, who knew the King well enough to guess his intention, warned him to go away and take refuge in a house that he had nearby. If the King ordered a search for him, as he suspected he would, then he would have him warned immediately so that he could flee the kingdom; equally, if things quietened down, he would have him informed, so that he could return. The bastard took his friend’s advice and acted on it with such alacrity that the captain of the guards was quite unable to find him.
Meanwhile the King and Queen came together to discuss what they would do about the poor young woman who had the honour to be related to them. At the Queen’s suggestion it was decided that she should be sent back to her father, who was duly apprised of the facts of the case. However, before they sent her, they arranged for several men of the Church and some members of the King’s Council to speak with her. These men made it plain to her that since her marriage was established by nothing more than exchange of words, it could quite easily be dissolved, provided that they gave one another up entirely. It was, they informed her, the King’s wish that she should do so, in order that the honour of her house should be upheld. Her reply was that she was ready to obey the King in all things, provided there was no conflict with her conscience. But that which God had joined together no man could put asunder, so let them not seek to induce her to do anything so unreasonable. For if love and honest intent founded on the fear of God were the true and sure bonds of marriage, then she was, she declared, so firmly bound that nothing, neither fire, nor steel nor water, could loose her bonds. Death alone could do so, and to Death alone and to no other would she give up her ring and her vows. She begged them, therefore, to speak to her no more of the contrary course of action. So resolute was she, that she would die to preserve her faith, rather than break it and live. The King’s spokesmen reported how Rolandine had replied with firm determination. Once it was realized that there would be no other way of making her renounce her husband, it was decided to send her back to her father. She was dispatched in such a pathetic condition, that everyone who saw her as she passed by was moved to tears. Although she [had done] wrong, the punishment was so harsh and her constancy so great, that it made her offence seem a virtue. Her father, when he heard the pitiful news, refused to see her, and sent her to a castle in a forest – a castle which he had built in previous years for a purpose which is worthy of being recounted [in a later story.] There, in this castle in the forest, he kept her imprisoned for a long time and had it constantly impressed upon her that if she renounced her husband, he would acknowledge her once again as his daughter and set her free. But she held firm. To preserve the bond of marriage she preferred to endure the bonds of prison. Far rather that, than all the freedom in the world without her husband. It seemed, to see her face, that all her pains were a pleasant pastime, so gladly did she endure them for the one she loved.
And then – ah, what words can express the wickedness of men? – the bastard, despite his obligation to her, fled to Germany, where he had many friends. It was quite plain from his lack of constancy that it was not true and perfect love that had led him to attach himself to Rolandine but rather greed and ambition. In fact, he soon became so enamoured of a German woman that he totally neglected to write letters to the one who for his sake was enduring so much tribulation. Fortune had treated them harshly yet had never deprived them of the means of writing to one another. No, the cause was the base and senseless love to which the bastard had succumbed. Rolandine’s heart was filled with such foreboding of the truth that she could take no more repose. When finally she heard from him, the way he wrote was so cool, so different in style from the way he had written in the past, that she began to suspect that it was some new love that was taking her husband away from her [and making him so distant.] Nothing, no, not all the pain and suffering that had been inflicted on her, had been able to accomplish such a thing. Yet her love was perfect and true, and she could not sit in judgement on the evidence of mere suspicion. So she found a way of sending a trusted servant in secret, not to bear letters or messages to the bastard, but to spy on him and discover the truth. And when the servant returned, he reported that he had found the bastard deeply enamoured of a German lady, and that he had heard a rumour that it was his intention to marry her, for she was a very wealthy woman. Poor Rolandine’s heart was so utterly overcome with sorrow at these tidings that she fell gravely ill. People who knew the cause of her condition told her on her father’s behalf that, since she could now appreciate the extent of the bastard’s wickedness, she had every right to abandon him. And to this end they did everything in their power to persuade her. Yet, even though she was tormented to the utmost degree, there was nothing that could make her change her mind. In this her final temptation she showed how great was the power of her love and the extent of her virtue. For as the bastard’s love diminished, so hers grew. In spite of all, her love remained perfect and whole, for as it drained from the bastard’s heart, so it flowed into the heart of Rolandine. When she knew at last that in her heart alone was all the love that once had dwelt in two, she resolved to nourish it there till one of them should die.
Thus it was that the divine Goodness, who is perfect charity and true love, had pity on her sorrow and looked upon her long-suffering, for not many days later the bastard in full pursuit of another woman met his end. Rolandine, informed of his death by the very people who had been present at his burial, sent to her father a request that she might speak to him. He went to her at once, though since she had been locked away he had never once spoken a word to her. He heard her out while she delivered her just defence, and then instead of condemning her and killing her as he had often threatened, he took her in his arms and wept bitterly.
‘There is more right on your side than on mine,’ he said, ‘for if any offence has been committed in what you have done, it is I who am to blame. But since God has ordained that it should be so, I will make amends for the past.’
So he took her back to his home and treated her as his eldest daughter. She was wooed by a gentleman who bore the same name and arms as her father and who was a sober and virtuous man. He spent a lot of time in Rolandine’s company and held her in such high esteem, that he would praise her where others would have blamed her, for he knew that virtue had been her only goal. Both Rolandine and her father were favourable towards the marriage, and so it was concluded without delay. It is true that one of her brothers, who was the sole heir to the estate, refused to agree that she should have any share in it whatsoever, on the grounds that she had been disobedient to her father. Indeed, after the father’s death he treated her so harshly that she and her husband, who was a younger son, were hard put to keep themselves alive. But God provided for them. For one day this brother who wanted to keep everything for himself died unexpectedly, leaving behind him both his own inheritance and the inheritance that rightly belonged to his sister. Thus she became heir to a fine large house, and there she lived a devout and respectable life in the company of her husband, whom she loved dearly, and by whom she too was much beloved. And at last, after having raised th
e two sons whom it had pleased God to grant them, she gave up her soul to Him in whom she had always had perfect trust.
*
‘Well, Ladies, let the men, who are so fond of representing us women as lacking in constancy, produce an example of a husband who was as good, as faithful and as constant as the woman in this story. I’m quite certain that they would have a great deal of difficulty in doing so – so much, in fact, that I’d rather let them off than put them to such a lot of trouble! And as far as the ladies are concerned, [I would ask] that you will all either not love at all or else love as perfectly as Rolandine, so that our honour and reputation be upheld. And don’t let anyone say to you that she sullied her honour, for through her steadfastness she has greatly magnified the honour of us all.’
‘In all truth, Parlamente,’ said Oisille, ‘you have told us the story of a woman who possessed a noble and virtuous heart. But what enhances her constancy is her husband’s disloyalty and the fact that he deliberately left her for someone else.’
‘I think that was the hardest thing for her to bear,’ said Longarine, ‘for when a couple are completely united in love, no burden is so heavy that it cannot be carried with a cheerful heart; but when one of them fails to meet the demands of duty and leaves the full burden to be borne by the other, the weight is beyond endurance.’
‘Well then,’ said Geburon, ‘you ought to take pity on us, seeing that we bear the whole burden of love and you never lift a finger to ease the load!’
‘Ah, Geburon!’ said Parlamente. ‘The burdens borne by men and by women are often very different. A woman’s love is rooted in God and founded on honour, and is so just and reasonable that any man who is untrue to such love must be considered base and wicked in the sight of God and in the eyes of all [good] men. But most [men’s] love is based on pleasure, so much so that women, not being aware of men’s evil intentions, sometimes allow themselves to be drawn too far. But when God makes them see the wickedness in the heart of the man of whom they had previously thought nothing but good, they can still break it off with their honour and reputation intact. Those wanton loves are best which are the shortest!’
The Heptameron Page 27