‘My son is growing up now, and it’s time he left home. I have a relative who is away beyond the mountains with the Grand-Maître de Chaumont. His name is Captain Montesson, and he will be very pleased to enlist my son. So, take him at once, and to spare me the pain of parting, tell him not to come to bid me farewell.’
So saying, she gave him the necessary money for the journey. That very morning the young man departed for the wars, and, having as he believed spent the night with his paramour, there was nothing better that he could have wished for. The lady remained for a long time plunged into a deep sadness and melancholy. Had it not been for her fear of God, there was many a time when she would gladly have wished that the unhappy fruit of her womb should perish. She pretended to be ill, so that she could wear an outer garment to conceal her fault. When the time of her confinement was near, she turned to the one man in whom she could place her trust, a bastard brother, to whom she had in the past given a great deal. She told him what had befallen her, without telling him about her son, and asked him to help her save her honour, which he gladly agreed to do. A few days before she was due to give birth, he came and invited her to have a change of air, saying that it would help her recover her health if she came to stay in his house for a while. So, accompanied by a small group of attendants, she went with him. Waiting for them they found a midwife who had been told it was the brother’s wife she was to attend. One night, without the midwife’s realizing who she was, the lady was delivered of a beautiful baby girl. Her brother had the child fostered with a wet-nurse, pretending that it was his own child. The lady stayed one month, and then, fully recovered, returned to her own house, where she began to live a more austere life than ever, subjecting herself to fasts and other disciplines.
When the wars in Italy were over, the lady’s son, who by this time had grown to full manhood, sent word to his mother, asking if he might return to her house. But she was afraid of falling into the same sin again, and refused to give her permission. The son persisted, until in the end she could no longer find any reason to continue in her refusal. However, she sent a message to him to the effect that he was never to appear before her unless he was married to somebody he loved deeply. It did not matter who she was; her fortune was not important; so long as she was a girl of gentle birth, that would be sufficient. During this time, the lady’s bastard brother saw that his adopted daughter had grown up into a beautiful young girl, and decided that she should be placed in a household in some far-off region where she would not be known. On the advice of her mother she was placed with Catherine, the Queen of Navarre. At the age of twelve or thirteen the girl had indeed grown so beautiful and noble in her ways that the Queen came to hold her very dear, and was anxious that she should be married to someone of high estate. But though the girl had many men to pay her court, because she was poor, she had none to be her husband. One day, however, the noble lord who was her unknown father came back from over the mountains and arrived at the house of the Queen. No sooner had he caught sight of his daughter than he fell in love with her. Having received permission from his mother to marry whom he pleased, all he desired to know about the girl was whether she was of gentle birth, and on hearing that indeed she was, he asked the Queen for her hand. The Queen, who knew that he was rich, and not only rich but handsome, noble and good, gladly gave her consent.
Once the marriage had been consummated, the noble lord wrote to his mother again, saying that she could surely no longer refuse to have him, for now he could bring with him a daughter-in-law as perfect as anyone could ever desire. His mother asked further about the match he had made, and on realizing that her son’s wife was their own daughter, she sank into a state of such utter desperation that she thought her end was near. For the harder she tried to place impediments in the way of disaster, the more she became the instrument whereby ever new catastrophes overcame her. Not knowing what else she could do, she went to the Legate at Avignon, confessed the enormity of her sin, and asked for his advice on what she should now do. [In order to satisfy] her conscience the Legate summoned several doctors of theology, to whom he explained the whole affair, without revealing the names of the persons involved. In the light of their counsel he concluded that the lady should never say anything to her children, for they had acted in ignorance and consequently had not sinned. But she, their mother, was to do penance for the rest of her life without giving the slightest indication of it to them. The poor lady returned to her house, and not long after that her son and her daughter-in-law arrived. They were very much in love. Never was there such love between husband and wife, never were a husband and wife so close. For she was his daughter, his sister, his wife. And he was her father, brother and husband. They endured for ever in this great love, while the poor lady, their mother, in the extremity of her penitence, could not see them show their love but she would withdraw to weep alone.
*
‘There, Ladies, that is what becomes of those women who presume by their own strength and virtue to overcome love and nature and all the powers that God has placed therein. Better were it to recognize one’s weakness, better not to try to do battle with such an enemy, but turning to the one true lover, to say with the Psalmist*: “Lord, I am oppressed; answer thou for me.”’
‘One could not possibly hear a stranger story than that,’ said Oisille, ‘and I think that every man and woman here should bow their heads in the fear of God, to see how, as a result of presuming to do good, so much evil came about.’
‘Be you assured, the first step man takes trusting in himself alone is a step away from trust in God,’ said Parlamente.
‘He is a wise man,’ said Geburon, ‘who recognizes no enemy but himself, and who distrusts his own will and counsel [, however good and holy they may appear to be.’
‘And no matter how good a thing it might appear to be,’ said Longarine,] ‘nothing should induce a woman to risk sharing a bed with a male relative, however close he may be to her. It’s not safe to set a naked flame near tinder.’
‘Without a doubt she was one of those foolish, vainglorious women who had had her head filled with nonsense by the Franciscans,’ said Ennasuite, ‘and thought she was so saintly that she was incapable of sin, as some of them would persuade us to believe that through our own efforts we actually can be, though this is an extreme error.’
‘Is it possible, Longarine,’ said Oisille, ‘that some of them are so foolish as to believe that view?’
‘They do better than that!’ replied Longarine. ‘They even say that it’s necessary to habituate themselves to the virtue of chastity, and in order to put their strength to the test, they converse with the most beautiful women they can find, with women whom they particularly like. Then by means of fondling and kissing they test themselves to see if they have achieved mortification of the flesh. If they find that they are aroused by these little pleasures, they go into solitude and subject themselves to fasts and austere disciplines. And when they have overcome the desires of the flesh to the point where a conversation and a kiss no longer [arouse] them, they try out the ultimate temptation of going to bed with a woman and embracing her without lustful desire. However, for every one who survived this test, there were many who did not, and the consequences were so unfortunate that the Archbishop of Milan, where these particular religious practices were rife, was obliged to separate the men from the women, putting the women in women’s convents and the men in monasteries of their own.’
‘Really,’ said Geburon, ‘it’s the extreme of folly to want to put oneself through one’s own efforts above sin, and then actually to go looking for situations where a sin may be committed!’
‘Some people do the opposite, however,’ said Saffredent, ‘and avoid such situations as much as they can – but even then their concupiscence goes with them. The good Saint Jerome, even after he had flagellated himself and hidden himself away in the wilderness, confessed that he could not get rid of the fire that burned in the marrow of his bones. So we should commend oursel
ves to God, for if He does not hold us in His grip, we stumble and take great pleasure in so doing.’
‘But you’re not taking any notice of what I can see!’ interrupted Hircan. ‘While we’ve been telling our stories, the monks have been listening behind the hedge! They didn’t even hear the bell for vespers, but now that we’ve started talking about God they’ve run off and they’re ringing the second bell!’
‘We will do well to follow them,’ said Oisille, ‘and go to render thanks to God for having spent this day so happily.’
At this, they rose and made their way to the church, where they all devoutly heard vespers. Afterwards, when they went for supper, they discussed the things that had been said during the day and recounted many things that had happened in their time, in order to see which were worthy of note. After passing the evening in this happy way, they all retired peacefully to bed, looking forward to continuing on the next day the pastime which they found so agreeable. And so the third day came to its close.
END OF THE THIRD DAY
FOURTH DAY
PROLOGUE
The next day Madame Oisille rose long before the others as was her wont, and passed the time meditating on her Bible until they had all assembled. The laziest amongst them excused themselves with an allusion to the words of the Bible, saying ‘I have a wife, and therefore I could not come so early’! When Hircan and his wife Parlamente arrived, they found the daily lesson was well under way. But Oisille knew how to find the passage in which Scripture reproaches those who are negligent in listening to the sacred word. She not only read them the text, [but] she also gave such sound and devout expositions that no one could possibly find it boring. Once the reading was over, Parlamente said to her:
‘I was angry with myself for being lazy when I arrived, but as my failing has led you to speak so excellently, my laziness has yielded twice the profit – I have rested my body by sleeping longer, and given repose to my mind by listening to your excellent words.’
Oisille replied, ‘Well, as penance let us go to mass to pray to Our Lord to give us the will and the means to carry out His commandments, and that He will command that which is His pleasure.’
As she said these words, they entered the church where they devoutly heard mass. Afterwards, they sat down at table, and Hircan did not overlook the opportunity to tease his wife for her laziness. Having eaten, they each retired so that they could study their scripts. At the appointed time, they went to their usual meeting place. Oisille asked Hircan whom he would choose to start the day.
‘If my wife had not started yesterday,’ he replied, ‘i’would have picked her, for although I’ve always known she loved me more than all the men in the world, she showed this morning that she loved me even more than she loved God and His word, by the way she neglected your reading to stay with me! However, seeing that I can’t choose the wisest woman amongst us, I’ll choose the wisest man, who is Geburon. And I would ask him not to spare the monks!’
To which Geburon replied: ‘You have no need to ask me – I already had them in mind, for not long ago I heard a story about monks told to Monsieur de Saint Vincent, the Emperor’s ambassador. It’s a story that ought not to be allowed to slide into oblivion, so I shall tell it to you forthwith.’*
STORY THIRTY-ONE
In the lands subject to the Emperor Maximilian of Austria there was a Franciscan monastery highly esteemed by all. Nearby there lived a certain gentleman who had become so friendly with the friars that there was nothing he had which he would not gladly give them in order to be able to share in their good works, their fasts and their disciplines. Now one of the good brothers – a handsome strapping fellow he was – had been taken on by this gentleman as his confessor and had as much authority in the gentleman’s household as the gentleman himself. Well, having observed that the man’s wife was as good and beautiful as it was possible to be, our Franciscan friend fell so much in love with her that he lost all appetite for food and drink, and with it his natural reason.
One day, he made up his mind that the deed must be done. He went alone to the house, and finding the gentleman out he asked the lady of the house where he had gone. She replied that he had gone to one of his estates, that he would be staying there two or three days, but that if the good brother wanted to see him on business, she would send a man specially to fetch him. The friar replied that that would not be necessary, and started to go about the house as if he had some affair of great importance on his hands. When he had left the room, the lady said to one of her two maids: ‘Go after the good father and find out what he wants, because it appears from the expression on his face that he is not at all happy.’ The chambermaid went out into the courtyard to ask if he required anything. He replied that indeed he did, and dragging her into a corner, he took a dagger from his sleeve with which he proceeded to slit her throat. No sooner had he done this than a servant rode into the courtyard on horseback, having been to collect rent from one of his master’s farms. As soon as he had dismounted he greeted the Franciscan, who embraced him, cut his throat from behind, and closed the castle gate after him.
When her chambermaid failed to reappear, the lady, puzzled that she was such a long time with the monk, said to her other maid, ‘Go and see what is keeping your companion.’ The maid went off and as soon as the monk saw her, he drew her into a corner and dealt with her as he had with her companion. Now that he was completely alone in the house, he came to the lady and told her that he had been in love with her for a long time and that the time had come when she must obey him. The lady, who had never had the slightest suspicion of this, replied, ‘Father, I think that if I were ever to desire anything so wicked, you would be the first to want to reprimand me.’
To which the monk said, ‘Go outside into the courtyard and you’ll see what I’ve done.’
When she saw her two maids and her servant lying dead, she was so terrified that she stood there like a statue, motionless and speechless. Then the evil man, who certainly had no intention of letting her go after a [mere] hour of pleasure, decided not to take her by force, but said instead, ‘Mademoiselle, do not be afraid. You are in the hands of a man who loves you more than anyone in the world.’ So saying, he stripped off his habit and presented to the lady a smaller habit which he had on underneath, telling her that if she did not put it on, he would send her to join the corpses lying on the ground in front of her.
The lady, more dead than alive, decided to pretend to obey him, as much to save her life as to gain time, in the hope that her husband would return. So, she did as he ordered and started to let her hair down, taking as long over it as she could. Once her locks were loose, the friar, without a thought for their great beauty, hastily hacked them off. Then he made her strip to her shift and put on the small habit he had brought with him, while he got back into his own. This done, he set off with all possible speed, leading behind him his little Franciscan whom he had desired for so long. But God, who has pity on the innocent in distress, saw the tears of the poor lady. The husband, having concluded his business sooner than expected, was riding back along the same road. However, when the friar saw him in the distance, he said to the lady:
‘Here’s your husband coming! If you look at him, he’ll try to take you from me. So walk right in front, and don’t turn your head in the direction he’s going, because if you make any sign to him, my dagger will be in your back before he can do a thing to save you.’
As he spoke, the gentleman approached and asked him where he was coming from, to which the friar answered, ‘From your house, where I have left Madamoiselle, who is very well and is waiting for you.’
The gentleman went on his way, without noticing his wife. But one of the servants who was with him was in the habit of chatting with the Franciscan’s usual companion, whose name was Brother John, and thinking that that was who it was, he called across to the cowled figure who was really his own mistress. The poor woman, not daring to turn her head towards her husband, did not reply. But the manserv
ant crossed the road to have a look at her face, and without saying anything the lady signalled to him with her eyes, which were full of tears. The manservant went after his master and said:
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