Mid-Lent arrived and the lady was still writing to the preacher about her wild passion. Even at Passiontide, and during Holy Week, she persisted. It seemed to her that every time the man looked in her direction, or talked about the Love of God, he did it for love of her, and she did her best to express her thoughts in her eyes. Throughout this time her husband went on writing the replies to her letters. After Easter he wrote her a letter, in the name of her preacher, in which he begged her to tell him how he might meet her in secret. She could not wait. So she suggested to her husband that he go and inspect some lands they owned in the country outside Pamplona. This he promised to do, but instead stayed behind and lay low at the house of a friend. The lady wrote at once to the preacher, to tell him he could come, as her husband had left for the country. The gentleman wanted to test his wife’s heart to the bitter end, so he himself went to the preacher and begged him in God’s name to lend him his habit. But the preacher, who was a good man, told him that their rule forbade such a thing and that he had no intention of letting him have his habit to use for fancy dress. However, the gentleman assured him that he would not abuse it and that it was for a matter essential to his good and his salvation. So in the end, knowing him to be a good and devout man, the Franciscan agreed. The gentleman put on the habit, completely covering his face so that his eyes could not be seen. Then he put on a false beard and nose to make himself look like the preacher, and a piece of cork in his shoes to make himself taller. Thus attired he went that very evening to his wife’s bedroom, where, immersed in her devotions, she was waiting. The poor silly woman did not even wait for him to approach her, but like someone out of her senses ran up to him and threw her arms round him. The husband kept his head bowed to avoid recognition, made the sign of the cross and pretended to back away, saying over and over again the words: ‘Temptation! Temptation! Temptation!’
The lady said: ‘Oh, Father, how right you are! The strongest temptation is that which comes from love, and you have promised to cure me of love. I beg you, now that we have the chance, have pity on me!’
So saying, she struggled to embrace him, while he ran round the room, waving his arms about in the sign of the cross, and continuing to shout ‘Temptation! Temptation! Temptation!’ But when she got too close, he took out a big stick he had under his habit, and beat her so soundly that he soon got rid of her temptation for her! Then, without having been recognized by her, he went straight to the preacher to give him back his habit, assuring him that it had brought success.
The next day he returned to the house, pretending he had just come back from his journey. He found his wife in bed, and as if he did not know what was ailing her, he asked what was the matter. She answered that she had a cold in the head and could not use her arms or her legs. The husband nearly burst out laughing, but pretended to be very upset, and as if to cheer her up, told her the same evening that he had invited the saintly preacher to eat with them. At this she burst out: ‘My dear, whatever you do, don’t invite people like that! They bring trouble to every house they go into.’
‘What!’ said her husband. ‘You’ve told me such a lot of good things about him. As far as I’m concerned, if ever anyone were a saint, it is he!’
The lady replied: ‘They’re good in church and when they preach sermons, but when they get inside a house they are Antichrists! I beg you, my dear, let me not have to see him, for with my present illness it would be sufficient to bring me to my deathbed!’
To this the husband replied: ‘Since you don’t want to see him, then you shan’t see him. But I’m going to invite him to supper all the same!’
‘Do as you please,’ she said, ‘so long as I do not have to see him. I detest these people as if they were the Devil himself!’
When he had served supper to the good father, the husband said: ‘Father, I look upon you as so favoured by God’s love, that He will not refuse you any request. I beg you to take pity on my poor wife, who for the past week has been possessed by some evil spirit which makes her want to bite and scratch anyone who comes near her. Crosses and holy water make no impression on her. I believe that if you were to place your hands on her, the devil would leave her. I beg you with all my heart to do this for me.’
The good father replied: ‘My son, to the believer all things are possible. Do you not firmly believe that God in His goodness never refuses His grace to anyone who asks for it in faith?’
‘I do, Father,’ said the gentleman.
‘Be you then also assured, my son,’ said the friar, ‘that God can do what He wills, and that He is as powerful as He is good. Let us go forth firm in faith to resist this roaring lion, let us wrest from him the prey which God has made His own by the blood of His son Jesus Christ!’
Thereupon the gentleman took the good man to his wife, who was lying on a couch. She was horrified to see him, thinking that it was he who had given her the beating. Inwardly she was seething with rage, but as her husband was present, she lowered her eyes and kept quiet. The husband said to the holy man: ‘When I’m with her the devil hardly troubles her. But the moment I leave the room, sprinkle her with holy water, [and] you’ll see the evil spirit in action right away!’
The husband then left him alone with his wife and waited outside the door to see what would happen. When she found herself alone with the good father, she started to scream like someone out of her mind, calling him evil, wicked, murderer and deceiver. The good father, thinking she really was possessed by an evil spirit, made to take her head in his hands in order to pray over her, but she scratched and bit him so hard that he was obliged to stand back and speak to her from a distance. He then said a lot of prayers, showering her with holy water as he did so. When the husband felt the friar had sufficiently fulfilled his purpose, he went back into the room and thanked him for his trouble. The moment he appeared, his wife stopped screaming her curses, and meekly kissed the cross, fearing her husband might find her out. But the holy man, who only a moment previously had seen her in a state of uncontrollable rage, firmly believed that as a result of his prayers Our Lord had cast out the devil, and he went off giving thanks to God for the great miracle that had been wrought! When the husband saw that his wife had been duly punished for her wild infatuation, he decided not to tell her what he had done. He contented himself instead with the knowledge that by means of his own good sense he had brought about a change of heart, so that she now felt nothing but hatred for the man for whom she had before felt nothing but passion. So it was that she came to hate her folly, [declaring that she would give up all superstitious ways,] and devoted herself to her husband and home more earnestly than before.
*
‘In this story, Ladies, you can see the good sense of a husband and the fragility of a [reputedly] good woman. It is, as it were, a mirror, and once you’ve looked into it, I think you will learn to turn to Him in whose hands your honour lies, instead of relying on your own powers.’
‘I’m glad to see,’ said Parlamente, ‘that you have started to preach for the ladies. I’d be even happier if you would kindly continue to preach these fine sermons to all the ladies you address!’
‘I assure you,’ said Hircan, ‘that whenever you wish to listen to me, that is the way I’ll speak.’
‘In other words,’ said Simontaut, ‘when you’re not there he’ll have other things to say!’
‘He will do what he likes,’ said Parlamente, ‘but I prefer to believe for my peace of mind that he always speaks as he just has. At least, the example he’s given us will be of use to women who think that spiritual love isn’t dangerous. It seems to me that it’s the most dangerous kind of love there is.’
‘But it seems to me,’ said Oisille, ‘that love for a good, virtuous, God-fearing man is not something to be despised, and that one can only be the better for it.’
‘Madame,’ replied Parlamente, ‘believe me, there’s no one more stupid, no one more easily taken in, than a woman who’s never been in love. Love by its very nature is a passi
on which seizes the heart before one realizes it. It’s a passion that provokes such pleasurable sensations that if it can disguise itself under the cloak of a virtuous exterior, it’s hardly ever recognized before something unfortunate ensues.’
‘What could ever go wrong,’ said Oisille, ‘if one loves a good man?’
‘Madame,’ replied Parlamente, ‘there are plenty of men who are good by repute. But I don’t think that these days there is a single man alive who is genuinely good with regard to ladies, and who can be trusted with a lady’s honour and conscience. Women who believe it is otherwise, and accordingly act in complete confidence, end up by being deceived! They enter into such liaisons by way of God, and often get out of them by way of the Devil. I know many women who, under the guise of talking about God, embarked on a liaison which they later wanted to break but couldn’t, because they were caught up in their own cloak of respectability. You see, vicious love disintegrates of its own accord, and is unable to survive in a heart that is pure. But “virtuous” love has such subtle bonds that one gets caught before one notices them.’
‘From what you say,’ said Ennasuite, ‘no woman would ever want to be in love with a man. But your law is so harsh that it cannot endure.’
‘I know,’ said Parlamente, ‘but in spite of that, I still think it desirable that every woman should be content with her own husband, as I am with mine!’
Ennasuite felt that these words were aimed at her and coloured: ‘I don’t think you should assume the rest of us are any different at heart from yourself,’ she said, ‘unless you regard yourself as more perfect than we are.’
‘Well,’ said Parlamente, ‘so as not to get into an argument, let’s see who Hircan will pick to speak next.’
‘I choose Ennasuite,’ he said, ‘to make up for what my wife has said.’
‘Well, since it’s my turn,’ said Ennasuite,’I shall spare neither men nor women, in order to make everything equal. And seeing that you can’t bring yourselves to admit that men can be good and virtuous, I’ll take up the thread of the last story, and tell you one that is very similar.’
STORY THIRTY-SIX
It is about a man who was president of the Parlement of Grenoble – a man whose name I can’t reveal, although I can tell you he wasn’t a Frenchman. He was married to a very beautiful woman, and they lived a happy and harmonious life together. However, the President was getting on in years, and the wife began an affair with a young clerk who was called Nicolas. Every morning, when her husband went off to the Palais de Justice, Nicolas would go to her bedroom to take his place. This was noticed by one of the President’s servants, a man who had been in his household for thirty years, and who, being loyal to his master, could not do otherwise than tell him. The President was a prudent man, and was not prepared to believe the story without further evidence. He said that the servant was merely trying to sow discord between his wife and himself. If it was true, he said, then he ought to be able to show him the living proof. If he could not do so, then he would conclude that the man had been lying in order to destroy the love which he and his wife had for one another. The servant assured him that he should see with his own eyes what he had described.
One morning, as soon as the President had left for the courts and Nicolas had gone into the bedroom, the servant sent one of his fellow-servants to tell the master to come, while he stayed by the door to make sure Nicolas did not leave. When the President saw the servant give him the signal, he pretended he was feeling unwell, left the court, and hurried back home, where he found his other faithful old servant by the bedroom door assuring him that Nicolas was inside and that he had indeed only just gone in.
‘Do not move from here,’ said the President. ‘As you know, there is no way in or out except through the small private room to which I alone have the key.’
In went the President and found his wife and Nicolas in bed together. Nicolas, who had nothing on but his shirt, threw himself at the President’s feet, begging forgiveness, while the wife started to weep.
‘Your misdemeanour is a serious one, as you well know,’ said the President to his wife. ‘However, I do not wish to see my household dishonoured or the daughters I have had by you disadvantaged. Therefore, I order you to cry no more and to listen to what I mean to do. And you, Nicolas, hide in my private room and make no noise.’
Then he opened the door, called his old servant, and said:
‘Did you not tell me that you would show me Nicolas and my wife in bed together? I came here on the strength of your word and might have killed my poor wife. I have found nothing to bear out what you have told me. I have looked all over the room and there is no one here, as I now desire to demonstrate to you.’
So saying, he made the servant look under the beds and everywhere else in the room. When he found nothing, the old man was amazed, and said to his master: ‘The Devil must have carried him off! I saw him come in, and he didn’t come out through the door – yet I can see that he is not here!’
Then his master replied: ‘You are a miserable servant to try to sow discord between my wife and myself. Therefore I give you leave to depart. For the services that you have rendered I shall pay what I owe you and more. But leave quickly and take care not to be found in this town when twenty-four hours have passed!’
The President gave him five or six years’ wages in advance, and knowing how loyal he was, said that he hoped to reward him further. So the servant went off in tears, and the President brought Nicolas out of his hiding-place. After telling his wife and her lover what he thought of their wicked behaviour, he forbade them to give any hint of it to anyone. He then instructed his wife to dress more elegantly than usual and to take part in all the social gatherings, dances and festivities. He ordered Nicolas too to make merry more than before, but added that the moment he whispered in his ear the words ‘Leave this place!’, he should take care to be out of town within three hours. So saying, he returned to the Palais de Justice without the slightest hint that anything had happened.
For the next fortnight he set about entertaining his friends and neighbours – something he had not at all been in the habit of doing. After the banquets which he gave, there were musicians with drums for the ladies to dance to. On one occasion he noticed that his wife wasn’t dancing, and told Nicolas to be her partner. Nicolas, thinking the President had forgotten what had happened, danced with her quite gaily. But after the dance was over, the President, on the pretext of giving him some instructions about domestic duties, whispered into Nicolas’s ear: ‘Leave this place and never return!’
Now Nicolas was sorry indeed to leave his lady, but none the less glad to escape with his life. The President impressed upon all his relatives, friends and neighbours how much he loved his wife. Then, one fine day in the month of May, he went into his garden and picked some herbs for a salad. After eating it, his wife did not live more than twenty-four hours, and the grief that the President showed was so great that nobody suspected that he was the agent of her death. And so he avenged himself on his enemy and saved the honour of his house.
*
‘It is not my wish, Ladies, to praise the President’s conscience, but rather to portray a woman’s laxity, and the great patience and prudence of a man. And do not take offence, Ladies, I beg you, because the truth sometimes speaks just as much against you as against men. Both men and women have their share of vice as well as of virtue.’
‘If all those women who’ve had affairs with their domestics,’ said Parlamente, ‘were obliged to eat salads like that one, then I know a few who wouldn’t be quite so fond of their gardens as they are, but would pull up [all] their herbs to avoid the ones that restore the honour of families by taking the lives of wanton mothers!’
Hircan, who guessed full well why she said this, replied angrily, ‘A woman of honour ought never to accuse [another] of doing things she herself would never do!’
‘Knowing something is not the same as making foolish accusations,’ said Parlamente.
‘The fact remains that this poor woman paid a penalty which not a few deserve. And I think that the husband, considering that he was intent on revenge, conducted himself with remarkable prudence and good sense.’
‘And also with great malice,’ said Longarine, ‘as well as vindictiveness that was both protracted and cruel – which shows that he had neither God nor conscience in mind.’
‘And what would you have wanted him to do, then,’ asked Hircan, ‘to avenge himself for the worst outrage a woman can perpetrate against a man?’
‘I would rather,’ she said, ‘that he had killed her out of anger, for the learned doctors say that such a sin is remissible, because the first movements of the soul are not within man’s powers. So if he had acted out of anger he might have received forgiveness.’
The Heptameron Page 38