‘Do you mean by that,’ said Saffredent, ‘that you think I’m full of vice myself?’
‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘Just that you know all about the ugliness of vice, so you are able to avoid it better than anyone else.’
‘There’s no need to be surprised by this act of cruelty we’ve just heard of,’ said Simontaut. ‘People who’ve travelled through Italy have seen the most incredible things, things which make this a mere peccadillo by comparison.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Geburon. ‘When Rivolta was taken by the French there was an Italian captain whom everybody regarded as a valiant comrade-at-arms and who came across a man lying dead, a man who was only an enemy in the sense that he had been a Guelph, while the captain was a Ghibelline. He tore the dead man’s heart out of his chest, roasted it over a charcoal fire, and ate it. When some people asked what it tasted like, he replied that he had never tasted a more delicious or enjoyable morsel. Not content with this fine deed, he killed the dead man’s wife, who was pregnant, tore out the fruit of her womb and dashed it against the battlements. He then filled the corpses of both husband and wife with oats and gave them to his horses. So judge for yourselves whether a man like that would be capable of hanging a girl whom he suspected of doing something he didn’t like.’
‘It would seem,’ said Ennasuite, ‘that the Duke of Urbino was more worried about his son marrying somebody poor than about finding him a wife to his liking.’
‘One cannot doubt, I think,’ answered Simontaut, ‘that it is the nature of Italians to love things created merely for the service of nature more than nature itself.’
‘It’s even worse than that,’ said Hircan, ‘because they make their God out of things that are against nature.’
‘Those are the sins I was referring to,’ said Longarine. ‘Everyone knows that to love money, unless one is using it to some end, is idolatry.’
Parlamente said that Saint Paul had not been unaware of the Italians’ vices, nor indeed of the vices of all those who regard themselves as rising so high above their fellows in honour, wisdom and human reason, upon which they rely so heavily, that they fail to render to God the glory that is His due. Consequently the Almighty, jealous of His honour, makes all those who think themselves better endowed with sense than others more insensate than maddened beasts, causing them to show by acts against nature that they are reprobate.
Longarine interrupted to point out that that was the third sin the Italians were subject to.
‘Now that comment gives me a great deal of satisfaction,’ said Nomerfide, ‘because it means that the people we usually think of as being the greatest and most subtle speakers are punished by being made more stupid than the beasts. So one must conclude that people like myself who are lowly, humble and of little ability are filled with the wisdom of the angels.’
‘I can assure you,’ said Oisilie, ‘that your view is not far removed from my own. For no one is more ignorant than the person who thinks he knows.’
‘I have never seen,’ said Geburon, ‘a mocker who was never mocked, nor a deceiver who was never himself deceived, nor arrogance that was never in the end humiliated.’
‘That reminds me of a practical joke I once heard of, which I would have been pleased to tell you about, if it were decent,’ said Simontaut.
‘Well, since we’re here to tell the truth,’ said Oisille, ‘whatever it may be, I nominate you to tell it to us for our next story.’
‘Then since it is my turn,’ answered Simontaut, ‘I will tell you.’
STORY FIFTY-TWO*
Near to the town of Alençon there lived a gentleman by the name of the Seigneur de Tirelière. One morning he walked from his house into town. It was not far, and as it was freezing extremely hard, he thought the walk would warm him up. So off he went, not forgetting to take with him the heavy coat lined with fox fur which he owned. When he had carried out the business he had to do in town, he met a friend of his, an advocate named Antoine Bacheré. After chatting for a while about business matters, he said that he felt like getting a good dinner – provided that it was at someone else’s expense. As they were talking this over, they sat down in front of an apothecary’s shop. Now in the shop was a serving lad, who, overhearing what they were saying, thought it would be a splendid idea to give them a dinner they would not forget. So he went out of the shop into a side-street where everyone went to relieve their natural needs, and found a large lump of excrement standing on its end, frozen solid and looking just like a little sugar loaf. He quickly wrapped it up in a nice piece of white paper, just as he did in the shop to attract customers. Then he hid it in his sleeve, and as he was going past the gentleman and his lawyer friend, he pretended to drop it near them. Then he went into a house, as if he had been going to deliver it. The Seigneur de Tirelière lost no time in picking up what he believed to be a nice little sugar loaf. Just as he was doing so, the apothecary’s lad came back, looking around and asking if anyone had seen his piece of sugar. Our gentleman, thinking he had properly outwitted the lad, hurried off to a nearby inn, saying to his comrade as they went: ‘We’ll pay for our dinner at the lad’s expense!’ When they got inside he ordered some good meat, some bread, and a good wine, thinking he now had adequate means to pay. As he ate and warmed himself by the fire, his sugar loaf began to thaw out. The stench filled the whole room. The gentleman, from under whose coat the foul smell was issuing, started to get angry with the serving wench: ‘You are the most disgusting people in this town I’ve ever seen! You or your children have littered the whole room with shit!’
The wench replied: ‘By Saint Peter, there’s no muck in this house, unless it’s you that brought it in!’
At this point, not being able to stand the smell any longer, they got up and went over to the fire. The gentleman got out his handkerchief– now stained with the thawed out sugar loaf! He opened his coat – the one lined with fox fur. It was ruined! All he could say to his companion was: ‘It’s that wretched apothecary’s lad! We thought we’d tricked him and he’s well and truly got his own back!’
And, after paying the bill, they left somewhat less pleased with themselves than when they had come.
*
‘Well, Ladies, that is the sort of thing that often happens to people who enjoy playing tricks like the Seigneur de Tirelière. If he hadn’t wanted to eat at someone else’s expense, he wouldn’t have ended up having such a disgusting meal at his own. I’m afraid my story wasn’t a very clean one! But you did give me leave to tell the truth. And that is what I’ve done, my aim being to show that when a deceiver is himself deceived, no one is very sorry.’
‘People generally say that words themselves never stink,’ said Hircan, ‘but those about whom they were uttered didn’t get off so lightly as far as smell was concerned!’
‘It is true, ‘ said Oisille, ‘that words like that do not smell, but there are other words, words referred to as disgusting, which have [such] an evil odour that the soul is far more disturbed than is the body smelling something like the sugar loaf in your story.’
‘Tell me, I beg you,’ said Hircan, ‘what these words are, which you know to be so foul that they make an honest woman sick in her heart and in her soul.’
‘It would be a fine thing,’ said Oisille, ‘if I uttered words which I would advise no other woman to say!’
‘By these very words,’ said Saffredent, ‘I know what these terms are which women who want to appear modest don’t generally use! But I would like to ask everyone here why it is that if they daren’t actually speak about such things, they are so ready to laugh when they hear others speaking about them?’
‘It isn’t that we laugh because we hear these fine words,’ replied Parlamente. ‘But the fact is that everyone is inclined to laugh when they see somebody fall over or when somebody says something unintentional, as often happens, even to the most modest and best spoken of ladies, when they make a slip of the tongue and say one word instead of another. But when you men sp
eak amongst one another in a disgusting fashion, out of sheer wickedness and in full knowledge of what you are doing, I know of no decent woman who would not be [so] horrified that not only would she not want to listen, but would want to avoid the very company of such people.’
‘It’s true,’ said Geburon. ‘I’ve seen women make the sign of the cross when they hear [such] words, and go on doing so until the speaker stopped repeating them.’
‘Yes,’ said Simontaut, ‘but how many times do they hide behind their masks, so that they can have the freedom to laugh just as much as they pretend to complain?’
‘Even that would be better,’ said Parlamente, ‘than letting everyone know that they found such language amusing.’
‘So you would praise hypocrisy in ladies, just as much as virtue itself?’ said Dagoucin.
‘Virtue would be better,’ said Longarine, ‘but when it is lacking, one must use hypocrisy, just as people wear high shoes to cover up the fact that they are not very tall. If we can hide our imperfections, even that is something worth doing.’
‘On my oath,’ said Hircan, ‘it would be better to show a little imperfection sometimes, rather than to cover it up so carefully under a veil of virtue!’
‘True enough,’ said Ennasuite. ‘Honour can be put on like a borrowed garment, but the borrower will be dishonoured when he has to give it back. I could mention a certain lady who, precisely because she made too much effort to conceal a trivial fault, ended up falling into a much more serious one.’
‘I’ve a good idea who you mean,’ said Hircan, ‘but at least don’t give her name away.’
‘Ah! You have permission to speak next,’ said Geburon, ‘on condition that after telling us the story you will tell us the names of those involved, and we will swear never to reveal them.’
‘I give you my word,’ said Ennasuite, ‘for there is nothing that cannot be recounted in an honourable fashion.’
STORY FIFTY-THREE
King Francis I was staying at a certain fine château. He had gone there accompanied by a small party in order to do some hunting and to relax. In the party was the Prince de Belhoste, a man as noble, virtuous, wise and handsome as any at court. He had married a woman who was not from one of the great families.* But he loved her and treated her as well as any husband can treat a wife, and placed such trust in her [that] when he fell in love with other women he made no attempt to conceal the fact from her. For he knew that he and she were of one will. Now this Prince entered into rather too intimate a friendship with a widow called Madame de Neufchâtel, a lady who had the reputation of being the most beautiful woman a man could ever wish to behold. If the Prince loved her greatly, his wife loved her none the less. Indeed she often invited her to eat with her, and found her so modest and honourable that, far from being upset that her husband should be so fond of her, she was glad to see him addressing his attentions to someone so well endowed with honour and virtue. This friendship lasted for a long time, and the Prince was as active in managing the affairs of Madame de Neufchâtel as he was in managing his own, and the Princess, his wife, did likewise. But Madame de Neufchâtel’s beauty attracted many great lords and noble gentlemen, all of whom made great efforts to obtain her favour. Some did so out of love for her and for no other reason, and some sought her hand in marriage because she happened to be very rich as well as very beautiful. Amongst these suitors was a young man named the Seigneur de Chariots. He pressed his suit so hard that he spent all the time he could by her side, staying near her the whole day long, and never failing to be present at her levee and her couchée. The Prince de Belhoste was not at all pleased by this, as it seemed to him that a man who was of such poor origins and such inelegant appearance did not merit such a courteous and gracious reception. He frequently reproached the lady on this score, but she was a duke’s daughter, and excused herself by saying that she was accustomed to speak to everybody, whoever they might be, and that their own friendship would be all the better concealed if she did not speak to any man more than to another. But after a certain length of time, this [Seigneur] de Chariots advanced so far in his suit that, more because of his persistence than because of any love between them, Madame de Neufchâtel promised to marry him on condition that he would not press her to make the marriage public until her daughters too were married. Thereafter, without any scruple of conscience, the Seigneur started going at all hours to the lady’s room, and there was never anyone there except a woman attendant and another man who knew of the affair. When the Prince saw that the gentleman was becoming a more and more frequent visitor to the house of the woman with whom he himself was in love, he found it so distasteful that he could not help saying to her:
‘I have always treasured your honour as that of my own sister. And you know that I have always addressed myself honourably to you, and that it gives me great pleasure to love a lady who is as modest and virtuous as you are. But if I thought that somebody else, without meriting it, had by his importunity obtained that which I myself would never ask for against your will – then it would be unbearable for me, and none the less dishonourable for you. I say all this to you because you are young and beautiful, and because hitherto you have enjoyed such a good reputation. But you are beginning to be the subject of very unpleasant rumours, for even though this man is not your equal in power, knowledge and grace, it would have been better for you to marry him than to make everyone suspect you of misconduct. So, tell me, I beg you, if you intend to grant him your love, for I do not wish to be his associate. If such is indeed your intention, then I shall leave him entirely to you and shall give up the goodwill which hitherto I have borne you!’
The poor lady began to weep, fearing that she would lose his friendship. She swore that she would rather die than marry the gentleman. But he was, she said, so importunate that she could not prevent him coming to her room at the hour everybody else came.
‘I am not talking about the times when everyone else comes,’ replied the Prince. ‘I could go then as well, and everyone can see what you are doing. But I have heard that he comes to your room after you have gone to bed. I find this so extraordinary that if you continue such behaviour and do not announce your marriage to him, you are the most dishonoured woman I have ever heard of!’
She swore on all the oaths she knew that she regarded him neither as a husband nor as a lover, but as the most importunate gentleman there ever was.
‘Since it seems to be the case,’ the Prince said, ‘that the man is annoying you, I promise that I shall get rid of him for you!’
‘What!’ she exclaimed. ‘You mean you’ll kill him?’
‘No, no,’ said the Prince, ‘but I shall let him know that the royal household is no place for ladies to be brought into dishonour. I swear, by the bond of love that binds me to you, that if after I have spoken with him he does not mend his ways, then I shall punish him so severely that he will be an example to the others.’
So saying, he went, and as he left the room, he met the Seigneur de Chariots who, not unexpectedly, was on his way in. He told him exactly what you have just heard him promise to tell him, assuring him that the very next time he was found there outside the hours when it is proper for gentlemen to visit ladies, he would give him a fright he would never forget. Furthermore, he warned, the lady in question was of too good a family to be played with in this fashion. The young nobleman insisted that he had only ever been to visit her in the same way as all the other men, and gave him leave to do his worst, if he should find him there for any other end.
Some days later, thinking that the Prince would have forgotten all about his threat, the young man went along in the evening to see his lady and stayed quite late. The same evening the Prince remarked to his wife that the Dame de Neufchâtel had a bad cold. His good wife asked him to go and visit her on behalf of them both and to send her apologies for not going herself, as she had some urgent matter to see to. The Prince waited till the King was in bed, and then went to pay his respects to his lady. But he was j
ust going up the staircase to her room, when he met a valet de chambre coming down, who, on being asked what his mistress was doing, swore that she was in bed and fast asleep. The Prince went down again, but strongly suspected that the valet was lying; so he glanced behind him and saw the fellow making his way back upstairs in great haste. He walked round in the courtyard at the bottom of the stairs to see if he would return. A quarter of an hour later he saw him come down and look all round to see who was in the courtyard. The Prince now concluded that the Seigneur de Chariots was in his lady’s room and that he did not dare come down for fear of being seen. This just made him go on walking round longer still. It occurred to him that there was a window in his lady’s room, overlooking the garden. It was not very high, and he remembered the old proverb, ‘If you can’t get out by the door, get out by the window.’ So he immediately called one of his own valets de chambre, and said: ‘Go into that garden round the back, and if you see a young nobleman climbing out of the window, wait till he gets one foot on the ground, then draw your sword, rattle it against the wall and shout “Kill him! kill him!”, but take care not to touch him.’
The valet went off as he had been ordered, and the Prince went on walking round in the courtyard till about three hours after midnight. When the Seigneur de Chariots was told that the Prince was still outside, he decided to climb out through the window. Having first thrown out his cloak, he jumped, with the help of his friends, into the garden. As soon as the Prince’s valet de chambre caught sight of him, he made a great clatter with his sword, as he had been instructed, and shouted ‘Kill him! kill him!’ At this, the poor young gentleman, who thought it was the Prince himself, was so terrified that he ran off as fast as he possibly could, without even remembering to pick up his cloak. The archers on watch were astonished to see him running off like this, but he did not dare explain to them. All he could do was beg them to open the gates for him, or to let him stay in their quarters till day came. And since they did not have the keys to the gate, it was in the archers’ quarters that he stayed.
The Heptameron Page 47