‘In all truth,’ said Parlamente, ‘if love didn’t make you a good husband, then I should set no great store by what you would do out of fear!’
‘You need not worry, Parlamente,’ he replied, ‘for the love I bear you makes me more obedient to you than would fear of death or Hell.’
‘You may say what you like,’ said Parlamente, ‘but I am content with what I have seen of you already, and what I already know about you. As for what I’ve not known, I’ve not felt disposed to be suspicious, and even less to inquire.’
‘I always think it is great folly for husbands to pry too much into what their wives do, and equally great folly for wives to pry into what their husbands do,’ said Nomerfide. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, without taking so much care for the morrow.’
‘Yet sometimes,’ said Oisille, ‘it is necessary to inquire into things that may concern family honour – in order to restore order, but not in order to speak ill of particular individuals. For there is no one who [at some time or another] is not liable to err.’
‘It does sometimes happen,’ said Geburon, ‘that people get into difficulties precisely because they don’t inquire sufficiently into what their wives are doing.’
‘If you know an example,’ said Longarine, ‘please do not keep it from us.’
‘I do know of an example,’ replied Geburon, ‘and since you wish me to, I will tell it to you.’
STORY SIXTY
In the town of Paris there once lived a man who was so good-natured that even if he had before his very eyes seen someone else in bed with his wife, it would have gone against his conscience to believe it. The poor man had in fact married the most unbridled creature you could imagine, but he never noticed what she was really like, and treated her as if she was the best wife in the world. One day, while King Louis XII was in Paris, she abandoned herself to one of his cantors. When she found out that the King was leaving town and that she would no longer be able to meet her cantor, she made up her mind to go with him and leave her husband. The cantor agreed, and took her away to a house he had near Blois, where they lived together for some considerable time. When the poor husband discovered that his wife had disappeared, he looked for her high and low, until eventually someone told him that she had gone off with the cantor. Anxious to find the lost ewe he had guarded so badly, he wrote to her again and again, begging her to return, and promising to have her back if she would be an honest woman. She, however, was so enjoying her cantor’s song that she had quite forgotten the voice of her husband, and took no notice whatsoever of his fine words – indeed, she laughed at them. This angered the husband, and he informed her that since nothing else could persuade her to come back to him, he would seek her return through the Church courts. Frightened that if the law intervened, she and her cantor would both pay dearly for it, the woman devised a plan in keeping with her character. Pretending to have fallen sick, she sent word for some of the honest women of the town to come and visit her. This they willingly did, in the hope that her illness would lead her to abandon her wicked life. They each made the most eloquent speeches urging her to mend her ways, upon which she, feigning to be grievously ill, pretended to weep and admit her sins, with the result that all these good ladies, who thought she was speaking from the depths of her heart, were moved to pity.
Seeing her so penitent and humble, they tried to console her, telling her that God was not so fearsome as many preachers portrayed Him, and that He would never refuse her His mercy. Then they sent for a good priest to hear her confession, and the next day the local curé appeared to administer the holy sacrament, which she received in such a pious manner that all the good ladies of the town who were standing round her bed wept to see such devotion, and gave thanks to God for having pity in His goodness upon this poor creature. After that she pretended that she could no longer swallow food, and the curé came again, this time to bring her extreme unction. This she received in silence, but with much sanctimonious gesticulation, for she had now made them believe that she had lost the power of speech. And so she went on, gradually losing her sight, her hearing, and the other senses – which had them all wailing ‘Jesus! Jesus!’ By now night was approaching, and the ladies, who had a long way to go, prepared to leave. As they were going out of the house they were told the news that she had died. So, saying the De profundis for her as they went, they made their way back home.
The curé asked the cantor where he wanted her to be buried, and he replied that it had been her wish to be laid in the cemetery, and that it would be best to take the body there during the night. So the much pitied and much lamented lady was laid out for burial – by a chambermaid who took very good care that she did not come to any harm! She was carried forth by torchlight to a grave that the cantor had had prepared for her. The ladies who had seen her receive holy unction came out of their houses as the cortège passed by, and accompanied the coffin to its resting-place. Once the priest and the women had disappeared into the distance, the cantor, who had remained behind together with the maid, immediately dug up the grave – and out came his mistress more alive than ever! He took her back to the house, where he kept her in secret for a long time.
Meanwhile the husband was continuing his search, and arrived at Blois intending to seek satisfaction at law, only to be told that his wife was dead and buried. The ladies of Blois assured him of the fact, and told him how beautiful her end had been. The good fellow was rather glad to be able to believe that his wife’s soul had gone to Paradise, and that he was now rid of her troublesome bodily presence on earth. And so, with gladness in his heart, he returned to Paris, where eventually he married a beautiful and virtuous young woman, who proved a thoroughly good wife and housekeeper, and by whom he had several children. They lived happily together for fourteen or fifteen years. But rumour keeps nothing hidden for long, and he came to hear that his first wife was not dead after all, but alive and living with the wicked cantor. He tried to hide it for as long as he could, pretending to know nothing of the rumour, and hoping with all his heart that it was false. But his second wife, who was a virtuous woman, heard the rumour as well, and became so distressed that she nearly died of her sorrow. Had she been able conceal it with a clear conscience, she would have done so, but that in any case was impossible. For the Church was anxious to regulate the matter immediately, and as a first measure insisted that the two should be separated until the truth was established. Then the poor man was obliged to leave his good wife in order to go and look for his bad one. He arrived in Blois, shortly after the accession of King Francis I. Queen Claude and the Regent were in residence there, and [he brought his case before them], seeking restitution of the woman whom in his heart he would far rather never have seen again. But there was no other way, and the whole assembly felt great pity for him. When his wife was found and brought to him, she insisted for a long while that he was not her husband – which, had he been able, he would have gladly believed. She went on, more indignant than ashamed, to tell him that she would rather die than go back to him. This he was only too relieved to hear. But the noble ladies who were listening to this shameful and dishonest speech sentenced her to return to her husband. They also harangued the cantor, until he was obliged under threat to tell his odious mistress that he no longer desired to see her and that she must go back to her husband. Hounded on all sides, the wretched woman went home with her husband, there to be treated far better than she ever deserved.
*
‘So that, Ladies, is why I say that if the poor husband had been a little more vigilant over his wife, he wouldn’t have lost her in the first place. If you look after things properly they don’t easily go astray. But neglect them, and you only encourage the thief.’
‘It’s a strange thing how strong love is when it seems least reasonable!’ said Hircan.
‘I’ve heard it said that it’s easier to break up a [hundred] marriages,’ said Simontaut, ‘than to break up a liaison between a priest and a chambermaid!’
&n
bsp; ‘Quite so,’ said Ennasuite. ‘Those who tie people together in matrimony are so good at tying knots that only death can put an end to it! The doctors of the Church maintain that spiritual language is greater than any other; consequently spiritual love surpasses any other kind.’
‘If a lady abandons a worthy husband or lover for a priest, however handsome and worthy he might be, that is one thing for which I could never pardon her,’ said Dagoucin.
‘Do not presume, Dagoucin, to discuss our holy mother Church,’ said Hircan. ‘You may rest assured that women who are rather quiet and timid derive much pleasure from sinning with a man they know can absolve them. A lot of women are more ashamed of confessing a deed than of the deed itself.’
‘You are speaking,’ Oisille intervened, ‘of women who have no knowledge of God whatsoever, who believe that the things they try to keep secret will not one day be revealed before the whole company of Heaven. I do not think that these women pursue confessors in order to make their confession. They are blinded to such a degree by our enemy the Devil, that what they are really looking for is the opportunity to sin in secrecy and security rather than the opportunity to seek absolution for sins of which they do not in the least repent.’
‘Repent!’ exclaimed Saffredent. ‘They actually think they’re more saintly than other women! I’m quite sure there are women who think it is to their honour to persist in that sort of love-affair.’
‘You speak as if you have some particular person in mind,’ said Oisille. ‘I beg you to tell us what you know tomorrow, to begin the day. The last bell for vespers is ringing already, for our friends the monks went as soon as we had finished the tenth story and left us to finish our discussion on our own.’
Thereupon they all rose and went to the church, where the monks were waiting for them. After they had heard vespers they ate together, speaking as they did so of many fine tales. After supper they went, as was their wont, to the meadow to disport themselves a little, and then to their rest, in order that their memories would be fresh for the next day.
END OF THE SIXTH DAY
SEVENTH DAY
PROLOGUE
The next morning Oisille did not fail to administer to the whole company the saving nourishment which she drew from her reading of the Acts, and the righteous deeds of the glorious knights and apostles of Jesus Christ according to Saint Luke, telling them how these tales should be sufficient to make them long to live in such an age, and weep for the corruption of the present. When she had thoroughly read and expounded the opening chapters of this noble book, she exhorted them all to go into church, in the union and fellowship in which the apostles themselves prayed together, and to seek God’s grace, which is never refused to those who seek it through faith. This sentiment was found good by all, and they arrived at the church to find the mass of the Holy Spirit about to begin. This seemed most appropriate, and made them listen to the service in great d votion. Afterwards they dined, recalling the apostolic life. So much pleasure did they have in this, that they almost forgot their story-telling venture. Nomerfide, the youngest, was the first to remember, and said: ‘Madame Oisille has plunged us so deep into devotion that it will soon be past the time when we usually go to our rooms to prepare ourselves for our stories.’ Her words brought everybody to their feet, and after they had each spent some time in his or her own room, they duly went out to the meadow, just as they had the day before. Once they had made themselves comfortable, Madame Oisille said to Saffredent:
‘Although I am quite sure you will say nothing that would be to any woman’s advantage, nevertheless I must call upon you to tell the story which you promised us yesterday evening.’
‘I declare, Madame,’ he replied, ‘that I shall not acquire a [dishonourable] reputation as a malicious gossip merely because what I tell you is the truth, nor forfeit the favour of all virtuous women, merely because I tell of the misdeeds of those who are foolish. For I know from experience what it is just to be banished from their sight – indeed, had I been [thus] deprived of their good grace, I should not at this moment be alive.’
And as he spoke he turned his gaze away from her who was the cause both of his joys and of his sorrows, towards Ennasuite, who blushed, as if it was she herself to whom he was referring. His remark went home none the less to the person for whom it had been intended. Madame Oisille assured him that he might tell the truth freely at the expense of whomsoever his story might concern. So Saffredent began.
STORY SIXTY-ONE
Not far from the town of Autun there lived an extremely beautiful woman. She was tall, fair-skinned, and had the loveliest face I ever saw. She had married a man apparently younger than herself, who loved and cherished her so dearly that she had every reason [to return his love] and to be perfectly contented. Not long after they were married he took her into Autun, where he had some business to attend to. While he was engaged in the law-courts with a claim he had to make, she would go into a church to pray to God for him. During their stay in the town she went so often to this sacred place that she was noticed by a certain canon, a very wealthy man, who fell in love with her. He pressed his suit so hard that in the end the poor unfortunate woman gave in. The husband suspected nothing. He was preoccupied more with protecting his property than his wife. When the time came to return to their home, which was seven good leagues away, she was overwhelmed by grief at the prospect. But the canon promised to visit her often. He was as good as his word, and could always find an excuse to make a journey that would take him by way of her house. The husband, however, was not so stupid that he did not realize why the canon kept calling, and so arranged things that when the canon came his wife was never to be found. In fact he kept her so well hidden that the canon never once managed to speak to her. As for the wife, she was well aware of her husband’s jealousy, but gave no hint of her annoyance. Instead she quietly went ahead and laid her own plans, for it was very Hell for her to be deprived of the vision of her God! One day, while her husband was out, she managed to keep her manservants and chambermaids occupied and out of the way, so that she was alone in the house. She swiftly collected together some essentials, and, unaccompanied by anything but the senseless passion that swept her along, she set out on foot for Autun. She arrived late, but it was still light enough for her canon to be able to recognize her.
For over a year, in spite of the warnings and excommunications that the husband had thrown at him, the canon managed to keep her living with him in secret. In the end, the husband realized that his only recourse was an appeal to the Bishop himself. The Bishop’s archdeacon, a man as good as any man in France, went round all the canons’ houses personally, and so thoroughly, that he eventually found the woman, who by then was beginning to be given up for lost. She was duly thrown into prison, and the canon himself was condemned to severe penance. Once the husband heard that the efforts of the archdeacon and of several other worthy people had led to the recovery of his wife, he expressed his willingness to take her back. She swore to him that in the future she would lead the life of a respectable lady, and he, loving her as he did, was only too ready to accept her word. And so he brought her back to his house, and treated her as kindly as before, the only difference being that he now provided her with two elderly chambermaids, one of whom always remained with her whenever she was left alone. But however well he treated her, her base passion for the canon persisted and the quiet life she now led was torment to her. Moreover, beautiful though she was, and strong, healthy and active though he was, they never had any children. For her mind was always seven good leagues away from her body. She concealed her feelings so well, however, that her husband believed she had, like himself, completely buried the past.
But that was far from true – she was too far gone in wickedness for that. Just as her husband was growing to love her more and more, and suspect her less and less, she made up her mind to pretend to be ill. She kept up the act so well that the poor man became deeply distressed and spared nothing to try to find a cure for he
r. But she played her part so well that not only he but the whole household were convinced that she was becoming steadily weaker and coming close to death. He should have been overjoyed! But seeing that he was on the contrary greatly upset, his wife asked him to authorize her to make a will – which with tears in his eyes he gladly did. Having the right to make a will, although she had no children, she gave to her husband what she could, begging his forgiveness for the things she had done to him in the past. Then she called for the curé, made her confession, and received the holy sacrament of the altar so devoutly that all around her were moved to tears to see such a glorious end. Towards evening she begged her husband to have extreme unction administered, saying that she was sinking so fast that she feared she might not live to receive it. With all haste he had the priest sent for. Then in deep humility she received unction, and inspired everyone to sing her praises. When she had finished acting out this farcical ritual, she said to her husband that since God had granted her His grace to receive all the sacraments that the Church commands, she felt her conscience in a state of great peace and would like now to rest a little. She begged him to do likewise, for had he not need of rest, after watching and weeping by her bedside? Out went the husband, and the manservants, and the two poor old ladies who had guarded her so closely and so long while she had been well, and who now no longer feared to lose her, unless it be through death. Off they all went to bed, and could soon be heard snoring loudly. At once, the dying lady was out of her bed, creeping out of the bedroom in her nightdress, listening carefully for noises. When she was sure that the coast was clear, she went out through a little garden gate which was never locked.
All through the night she walked, barefoot, and clad only in her nightdress, in the direction of Autun and the saint who had kept her from death. But the road was long, and daylight overtook her before she arrived. Looking round, she saw in the distance two horsemen riding hard. Suspecting it was her husband in hot pursuit, she hid herself in a swamp by the road, her head concealed between the reeds, and the rest of her in the mud. As her husband rode by she could hear him say to one of their servants, like a man at his wits’ end: ‘Ah! the wicked creature! Who would have thought that she could have done such a base and abominable deed under the disguise of the holy sacraments of the Church!’
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