The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

  The Prince’s sister was not sure what to make of these words. In spite of the fact that her brother was a man of the world, he was, she knew, also a man of conscience and a man who devoutly loved and trusted in God. But to make a practice of going to superstitious ceremonies other than those which a good Christian should attend – that was something of which she would never have suspected him. So when she saw him, she told him what a high opinion the monks had of him. He could not help bursting out laughing at this, and she could tell at once – for she knew him as well as she knew herself – that there was something else behind his apparent piety. She did not leave him alone until he had told her the truth – [the truth even as I have written it down, and even as she herself so graciously told it me.

  *

  ‘You see from this, Ladies, that however cunning your lawyers, however crafty your monks – and all of them are in the habit of tricking everybody and anybody – the god of Love can in cases of need outwit them all, and make fools of them at the hands of those whose only experience is to have been in love. So if Love can trick the tricksters, then the rest of us ordinary ignorant folk ought indeed to fear it!’]

  ‘I think I can guess well enough who the hero of that story is,’ said Geburon, ‘but I must still say that one can have nothing but praise for the way he acted. One sees only too few men of such elevated rank who care either about women’s honour or about public scandal, provided they enjoy themselves; and very often they don’t even care if people suspect them of being worse than they really are.’

  ‘I do wish that all young lords would follow his example,’ said Oisille, ‘because often the scandal is worse than the sin itself.’

  ‘Don’t forget,’ exclaimed Nomerfide, ‘that he had every good reason to be saying his prayers!’

  ‘But you should not seek to judge,’ replied Parlamente, ‘because it’s possible that afterwards his repentance was such that his sin was forgiven.’

  ‘It’s very difficult to repent something as enjoyable as that!’ said Hircan. ‘I’ve often made my confession about that sort of thing, but I’ve scarcely ever repented!’

  ‘It would be far better,’ said Oisille, ‘not to confess at all if one does not feel true repentance.’

  ‘But, Madame,’ he replied, ‘I don’t approve of sin, and I’m always very sorry if I offend God – but I still enjoy it!’

  ‘So you and your ilk would rather there wasn’t any God at all,’ Parlamente replied, ‘and that there was no law either, unless it was laid down according to your own inclinations?’

  ‘I admit that I’d be very glad,’ said he, ‘if God enjoyed what I enjoy as much as I do – I’d be able to give Him plenty of opportunity to have a good time!’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to be able to make a new god,’ commented Geburon, ‘so you’d better obey the one we’ve got. Let’s leave this dispute to the theologians, and ask Longarine to choose the next person to speak.’

  ‘I choose Saffredent,’ she said, ‘but I would request him to tell us the best story he can think of and not to concentrate so much on speaking ill of women that in cases where there is something good to say he does not tell the whole truth.’

  ‘Willingly,’ began Saffredent. ‘I’ll do just as you ask, because the story I have in mind is in fact about a woman who was wanton and a woman who was wise. You may please yourselves which example you follow! You will see that love makes bad people do bad things, and virtuous people do things we should respect. For in itself love is good, but if the individual is bad, then you might choose to call it something else – foolish, fickle, cruel, or depraved. What you will see, then, from the story I am about to tell you, is that love doesn’t change the heart but shows the heart as it really is – wanton in women who are wanton, wise in women who are wise.’

  STORY TWENTY-SIX

  In the time of Louis XII there was a young lord by the name of d’Avannes. He was the son of the Seigneur d’Albret, the brother of Jean de Navarre, and it was with the latter that d’Avannes resided. Now, already at the age of fifteen this young lord was so good-looking and so charming that it seemed his only role in life was to be loved and gazed upon in admiration. Indeed, everyone who saw him did love and did admire him, in particular a certain lady who lived in Pamplona, in Navarre. She was married to a very rich man and she led a quiet and respectable life. In fact, although she was only twenty-three, she dressed so modestly in order to conform with her husband, who was nearer fifty, that she looked more like a widow than a married woman. She was never seen at weddings or any other celebrations without her husband, whose good qualities she held in such high regard that she preferred him to all other men, no matter how young or good-looking they might be. For his part, the husband had found her so good and so wise, and had such confidence in her, that he placed her in charge of all his domestic affairs.

  One day this rich man and his wife were invited to the wedding of a relative, and it so happened that d’Avannes himself was there to honour the bridal pair. He was naturally fond of dancing, for there was no one in his day could match him. After dinner, when the music started, the rich man asked d’Avannes if he would dance for them. D’Avannes replied by asking who was to be his partner, to which the rich man answered:

  ‘Monseigneur, if there were any woman here more beautiful than my wife, and more ready to do my bidding, I would present her, humbly beseeching you to do me the honour of taking her as your partner.’

  The Prince accepted readily, but young as he was, he took more pleasure in skipping and dancing than in eyeing the charms of the ladies. His partner, on the other hand, was rather more interested in d’Avannes’s looks than in the dance – though of course, being a prudent lady, she was careful not to let her interest become obvious. When supper was served, d’Avannes took his leave of the guests and went back to the château. The rich man accompanied him on his mule, and said to him as they went along:

  ‘Monseigneur, you have done me and my family a great honour in being with us today, and I should be very ungrateful if I did not offer to perform for you some service that lies within my power. I know, Monseigneur, that noble lords like yourself often have fathers who are harsh and parsimonious and that you are often more in need of money than are the likes of us who live very quietly and frugally and only think about saving. Now God has given me a wife who is everything that I could desire, but it has not been His will that I should enjoy complete Paradise in this life, for He has deprived me of the joy of being a father. I know, Monseigneur, that it is not for me to adopt you as my son, but if you would deign to accept me as a servant and confide your little affairs in me you may depend on me to help you out in your needs to the extent of a hundred thousand écus.’

  D’Avannes was extremely pleased to receive this offer, because he had exactly the kind of father the rich man had described. So he thanked him warmly, and called him his father by alliance.

  From that moment on the rich man was so devoted to d’Avannes that he never ceased inquiring from morning till night whether the young man was in need of anything. He made no secret to his wife of his attachment to the young lord, or of his desire to serve him, and she loved him all the more. As for d’Avannes himself, he never from that time on went in want of anything. He would often go and visit the rich man, and eat and drink with him. If the rich man was not at home, his wife would supply everything he asked for, and not only that, but she would talk to him very wisely, and exhort him to live a wise and virtuous life, with the result that he came to love and respect her more than any other woman in the world. She for her part kept God and honour firmly in mind and satisfied herself with seeing him and hearing him speak, for in the faculties of sight and hearing lies the whole satisfaction of love that is noble and good. She never once gave any sign that might suggest she had any feelings other than Christian, sisterly affection.

  During this secret friendship d’Avannes was able, thanks to the rich man’s help, to cut an elegant figure, and as he approach
ed his seventeenth birthday, he began to pay more attention to the ladies than he had been accustomed to do. He would far rather have given his love to the wise lady than to any other, but he was afraid that if she heard him speak of it he would lose her friendship altogether. So he kept quiet, and pursued his pleasures elsewhere. Thus it was that he went and paid his attentions to a lady from near Pamplona who had a house in town. This lady was married to a young man whose ruling passion was horses, hounds and hawks. In order to please her, he took to putting on all manner of entertainments – tournaments, races, wrestling-matches, masked balls, banquets and other diversions. The lady would always be present, but her husband was a jealous man, and her mother and father, who knew that she was not only very attractive, but also somewhat flighty, were very cautious about her honour and reputation. Consequently, she was so closely guarded that d’Avannes never managed to get anything more out of her than a brief exchange of words during one of the balls. All the same, he could tell even from this brief encounter that the time and place to meet were all that would be required for the attachment to flourish. So he approached his good ‘father’, the rich man, and told him he had conceived a devout desire to visit the monastery of Our Lady of Montserrat and that he would like him to give lodging to his entire retinue, because he wanted to make the pilgrimage alone. To this the rich man readily agreed. But his wife, in whose heart was lodged that great prophet Love, who sees all, suspected at once what the true reason for the journey was, and could not resist saying: ‘Monsieur, the lady that you adore does not live beyond these city walls. Therefore I beg you, take care above all for your health!’ D’Avannes, who loved and respected her, blushed so deeply at these words that, without uttering a word, he confessed the truth. And thereupon he left.

  What he did then was to buy himself a pair of fine Spanish horses, dress himself up as a stable-lad and disguise his face so well that he was quite unrecognizable. The husband of the foolish lady from Pamplona, devoted to horses as he was, spotted the pair that d’Avannes had with him and lost no time in offering to buy them from him. When the deal was done he watched the disguised d’Avannes handle the horses, and was so impressed that he asked him if he wanted a job. D’Avannes replied yes, he was just a poor stable-lad, and looking after horses was the only work he knew, but he would do it very well, and the gentleman would be well pleased with him. So the gentleman, delighted by these words, placed him in charge of all his horses. When he arrived back at his house he told his wife that he was just going to the château and that she was to look after his horses and the new groom. While he was gone she went out to inspect the stables, partly to humour her husband and partly to amuse herself. She looked the new groom up and down. He seemed highly presentable, but she did not recognize him. Realizing that she did not know who he was, d’Avannes bowed to her in the Spanish style, taking hold of her hand and kissing it. As he did so, he squeezed so hard, that she realized who he was, because he had played exactly the same trick when she had danced with him at the ball. From that moment on she thought of nothing but how to get to talk to him on his own. That very evening she found the answer. She and her husband had been invited to a banquet, so she pretended to be ill. Her husband was anxious not to disappoint his friends, so he said: ‘As you don’t feel like coming, my dear, will you look after the dogs and the horses for me, in case they need anything?’

  This was a task highly to her taste, though she was careful not to show it. She replied that since he could not give her anything better to do, she would just have to show how much she desired to please him by doing something menial. The husband had scarcely gone through the door before she was downstairs in the stable. It had not taken her long to find something that needed to be done – and to make sure that it was done, she sent the servants off on errands all over the place! Now she was alone with her groom, but she was still afraid lest anyone came and found them, so she said:

  ‘Go into the garden. There’s a leafy bower at the end of the path. Wait for me there.’

  Without stopping to express his gratitude, he dashed off to the appointed spot. As for the lady, once she had finished her jobs in the stables, she went to take a look at the dogs. She took as much trouble over them as she had over the horses, busily instructing the servants to make sure that the animals had everything they needed. She worked so hard, anyone would have thought she was a chambermaid rather than the mistress of the house. When she had finished she went to her room, feeling so tired that she got straight into bed, saying that she needed to rest. All her serving women went out, except for one, in whom she confided.

  ‘Go into the garden,’ she told her, ‘and fetch me that man who’s waiting at the bottom of the path!’

  Off went the chambermaid, found the groom, brought him straight back to his lady, and then went to keep a look-out for the husband coming back. Now that he had his lady alone, d’Avannes stripped off his stable-boy’s gear, removed his false nose and his false beard, and, without so much as a by your leave, hopped boldly into bed with her. Gone was the cringing stable-lad. In his place was a bold young lord, the finest youth of his age, and as such he was received by the loveliest and most lascivious lady in the land. He stayed with her till the husband got back. Then, as soon as he heard him coming, he put on his disguise again and vacated the place which with such low cunning he had usurped. As he walked into the courtyard, the husband was told with what diligence and dispatch his wife had carried out his instructions, and he went to thank her.

  ‘I only did my duty, my dear,’ she said. ‘You were quite right, if one didn’t keep one’s eye on these wretched men of yours, all your dogs would be mangy and all your horses reduced to skin and bones. But since I know how lazy they are and how you like things, you’ll be better served than ever before!’

  The husband then asked her what she thought of the new groom, being himself convinced that he had made the best choice in the world.

  ‘Well, I admit he does his job as well as any servant you could have chosen, but he does need to be pressed hard, because he’s the sleepiest individual I ever came across!’

  As a result of this she and her husband actually lived for a long time on better terms than they had before. The husband ceased to be jealous and suspicious, because now she devoted as much attention to running the house as previously she had devoted to balls and banquets. Not only that, but whereas before she had been in the habit of spending four hours every day dressing herself up, she was now content to wear a simple tunic over her shift, and her husband and everybody else were very pleased with her, little knowing that it was a case of a worse devil taking the place of a lesser. Thus in the hypocritical guise of a virtuous wife, the lady lived a life of such sensual pleasure that reason, conscience, order and moderation no longer had any place in her. But the delicate constitution of d’Avannes, who after all was still very young, could not tolerate this state of affairs for long. He became so pale and thin that even without his disguise you would not have recognized him. But his wanton passion for this woman so dulled his senses that he made demands on his strength that would have exhausted Hercules himself. As a result he eventually fell sick, and on the advice of his lady, who was less fond of him in that condition than when he was well, he asked his master for leave to go and visit his parents. The husband granted him his request reluctantly, and made him promise that he would return to his service once he had recovered. So d’Avannes set off – on foot, of course, because he only had to go down the street to reach the house of his good father, the rich old man. When he got there he found no one at home but the wife, whose virtuous love for him had not in the least diminished while he had been away. But when she saw how thin and wan he was, she could not help saying to him:

  ‘Monsieur, I cannot guess what state your conscience is in, but you do not look as if your body has benefited from your pilgrimage. If I am not mistaken, it has been even harder going for you at night than during the day. Why, if you’d walked all the way to Jerusalem, you
might have been more sunburnt, but you could scarcely have been thinner and weaker. But it’s all over now, so stop doing service to such idols, which instead of bringing the dead to life put the living to death. I could say a good deal more, but if your body has sinned, then it has been punished enough, and I feel too sorry for you to add to your sufferings!’

  When d’Avannes heard these words he was as much ashamed as he was aggrieved, and said: ‘Madame, I have always been told that repentance follows sin. To my cost I have now found out how true that is and I beg you to excuse my youthfulness, for youth will learn its lesson only by experiencing the bad things it refused to believe in.’

  Thereupon the lady dropped the matter, and put him in a comfortable bed, where he remained for the next fortnight, taking nothing but light, nourishing food. Both she and her husband were so attentive that he was never without one or the other of them at his bedside. And in spite of the fact that he had against all her wishes and all her advice behaved in the wanton manner I have described, the wise lady continued to love him as virtuously as before. For it was still her hope that after sowing his wild oats he would quieten down, bring himself back to the way of virtuous love and so be wholly hers. During the fortnight he spent in her house, she talked so inspiringly about love and virtue, that he began to abhor the wild and wanton life he had been leading. And as he gazed upon the lady, who in beauty far surpassed the wanton woman, he came more and more to recognize the virtue and the graces that were hers. Then, one day when the light was dim, he banished all fear, and could no longer hold back from saying:

  ‘Madame, I can see no better way to be as virtuous and good as you have exhorted me to be than to give my heart and my whole being to the love of virtue. So tell me, Madame, I beg you, will you not be so good as to give me all the help and favour that you can?’