‘It sounds to me,’ said Geburon, ‘as if you know a good story on the subject. So I invite you to take my place and to tell it to us.’
‘It’s not a long story,’ she began, ‘but if I can express it as it really happened, it’s certainly not one that’ll make you cry!’
STORY SIXTY-SIX
It was the year when the Princess of Navarre and the Duke of Vendôme were married. After the bride’s parents and the King and Queen had been regaled at Vendôme, they all went off together to the Guienne. They were entertained en route at the house of a nobleman, where many refined and beautiful ladies were assembled, and where the whole company danced till the early hours. The newly married couple were exhausted and retired to their bedroom, where they collapsed fully clothed upon the bed, and fell asleep. They were quite alone and the doors and windows were closed. Shortly, however, they Were awakened from the depths of their slumber by the sound of someone opening their door from the outside. Monsieur de Vendôme, suspecting it might be one of his friends trying to catch him unawares, drew back the curtain to have a look. But it was an old chambermaid of theirs. She walked straight up to the bed, and although it was too dark for her to see who it really was, she could just make out the two figures lying very close together. She began to shout:
‘You wicked, shameless good-for-nothing! I’ve suspected you for a long time, but I couldn’t prove it, and didn’t dare go and tell my mistress! But now I’ve caught you, I’m not going to keep quiet any longer! And as for you, you degenerate apostate! Do you know what shame you’ve brought on this house, to undo this poor lass like this? If I weren’t a God-fearing woman, I’d give you a thorough beating here and now! Get up! Are you still not ashamed of yourself? In the Devil’s name get up, won’t you!’
The Duke and the Princess were speechless with laughter, and hid their faces against one another, to make the old woman go on a bit longer. Seeing that for all her angry words the couple gave no sign of moving, she went closer and made to grab hold of them by the arms. It was then she realized, recognizing first the clothes and then the faces, that she had made a mistake. She was down on her knees in an instant, begging them both to forgive her for disturbing their sleep. Monsieur de Vendôme, however, had not yet heard all he wanted, and, jumping up, asked the old woman to tell him who she had mistaken them for. She was reluctant at first, but once he had assured her on his oath that he would tell no one, she told him that she had thought it was a young lady of the house, and a certain individual who bore the office of protonotary apostolical, and who was in love with the girl. She said that she had had her eye on the pair of them for a long time, because she did not like to think that her mistress should place her confidence in a man who brought such shame on the house. So saying, she went out and left the Duke and Princess alone again, as she had found them. They laughed long and heartily at what had happened, and although they told everybody about it subsequently, they never actually named the people for whom they had been mistaken.
*
‘And that, Ladies, is how the good lady, thinking she would give two illicit lovers their just deserts, revealed to two princely strangers something that the other servants of the house knew nothing at all about.’
‘I think,’ said Parlamente, ‘that I know whose house this happened in. And I think I know who the protonotary was, too. He’s already wielded his influence in a good number of ladies’ houses, and when he doesn’t manage to win the favour of the mistress of the house, he manages to ingratiate himself with one of the young women. Apart from that, he’s a good and honourable man!’
‘Why do you say “apart from that”?’ asked Hircan. ‘I think he was a good man precisely because he did what he did!’
To which Parlamente replied: ‘I see you recognize the patient and what he was suffering from, and if he needed a defence, you wouldn’t fail to act as his advocate! All the same, I wouldn’t trust a man who can’t manage even his own intrigues without the chambermaids finding out.’
‘And do you think,’ said Nomerfide, ‘that men care whether anyone knows, so long as they achieve their ends? Believe me, [if nobody else talked about it, they would have to go and make it public knowledge themselves]!’
Hircan was angry at this, and retorted: ‘There’s no need for men to talk about everything they know!’
‘Perhaps,’ said Nomerfide, blushing, ‘it would not be to their advantage if they did.’
‘To hear you speak,’ Simontaut intervened, ‘one would think that men took pleasure in hearing ill of ladies. I’m sure you think that I do. So, lest all the other [ladies] think me a slanderer as well, I should very much like to tell you something good about one!’
‘Then I give you my place,’ said Ennasuite, ‘and urge you to restrain your natural inclinations in order that you may honour us as you are duty bound.’
And this is how Simontaut began:
[‘It is so unexpected to me, Ladies, to hear of you performing any virtuous deed, that when such a deed does occur, it seems to me that it should not be concealed but rather written in letters of gold, in order to serve as an example to women and as a source of wonderment to men.] Seeing in the weak sex that which weakness itself opposes, I am led to recount what I have heard from Captain Robertval and several of his crew.’
STORY SIXTY-SEVEN
It happened during the aforementioned Captain Robertval’s voyage to the island of Canada. He had been appointed leader of the expedition by the King, and, provided the climate was favourable, his orders were to stay in Canada and establish towns and forts. You all probably know how he took the first steps in carrying out these orders. In order to populate the land with Christians, he took with him artisans of all types. Amongst these people there was a certain individual who was low enough to betray his master, and almost caused him to be taken prisoner by the natives. But by God’s will the plot was uncovered before it could harm Captain Robertval, who had the wicked traitor seized, with the intention of punishing him as he deserved. And he certainly would have punished him, had it not been for the man’s wife, who had braved all the perils of the sea with him, and could not now bear to see him die. She wept and pleaded with the Captain and the whole crew, until, partly out of compassion, partly because she at least had served faithfully, they granted her request. The couple were to be left together on a little island inhabited only by wild animals, and with them they would be allowed to take only a few basic necessities.
Finding themselves alone with only the ferocious beasts of the island for company, these unfortunate people had no help but in God, who had always been the sure hope of the poor wife. She was a woman who placed all her trust in Him, and for her preservation, nourishment and consolation she had brought the New Testament, in which she read unceasingly. But she also laboured alongside her husband to build as best they could a little hut in which to live. When the lions and other wild animals came close to devour them, they defended themselves so well, he with his arquebus and she with stones, that not only did they succeed in repelling them, but they were often also able to kill them for food. With the meat of the animals they killed and the herbs they gathered, they were able to live for a while, even [after] the bread they had brought with them had run out. [But] as time went on the husband found it increasingly difficult to take this diet. Eventually, he fell ill from the water they had to drink, and his stomach became distended. He died in a very short space of time, without any rites or any consolation other than those provided by his wife, who served him both as physician and as confessor. And thus he passed joyously from this desolate island into the regions of Heaven. All alone, the poor woman buried the body as deeply in the ground as she was able. But the lions at once caught the scent and came looking for the decaying corpse. From the protection of her little house, determined that her husband’s mortal remains should have a decent resting-place, she fought off the wild animals with shots from his arquebus. And so she lived on, her bodily existence no higher than that of the beasts,
but her soul in the sphere of the angels. For she spent her time in reading the Scriptures, in contemplation, prayer and other devotions. Her soul, within her emaciated and half-dead body, was joyous and contented. But He who will never abandon his people, He who shows His strength in the midst of man’s despair, did not suffer that the virtue He had bestowed upon this woman should remain hidden from men, but willed that to His glory it should be made known. And after a certain time had elapsed He brought it to pass that one of the ships of Robertval’s fleet should sail by the island. The crew, catching sight of smoke, were reminded of the couple who had been left there, and decided to go and see how God had dealt with them. The poor woman saw the ship approach, and dragged herself to the water’s edge, where the sailors found her as they landed. Giving thanks to God, she led them into her humble abode, and showed them how she had been living. They would have found it beyond belief, without the knowledge that God is almighty to nourish His servants in the barren desert even as in the finest banquets in the world. Unable to remain there any longer, they took the poor creature with them on their [long] voyage back to La Rochelle. When they had arrived and told the inhabitants of the town of her fidelity and steadfastness, she was received with great honour by all the ladies, who were glad to send their daughters to her to learn to read and write. In this worthy manner she earned her livelihood for the rest of her days and her sole desire was to exhort all people to love Our Lord and place their trust in Him, holding forth as an example the great mercy He had shown to her.
*
‘Now, Ladies, will you not admit that I have fairly praised the virtues that the Lord has endowed you with – virtues which are all the worthier to be praised as their recipients are the weaker?’
‘Far be it from us,’ replied Oisille, ‘to be sorry that you praise the graces of Our Lord in us, for in truth all goodness flows from Him; but it must be avowed that neither man nor woman is favoured in the work of God, for in their endeavours, both do but plant, and God alone gives the increase.’
‘If you’ve read Scripture properly,’ said Saffredent, ‘you will know that Saint Paul wrote that Apollos planted and that he watered, but he says nothing about women lending a hand in God’s labour!’
‘You’re as bad as all the other men who take a passage from Scripture which serves their purposes, and leave out anything that contradicts it. If you had read everything Saint Paul says, you would find that he commends himself to those women who have laboured with him in the Gospel.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Longarine, ‘the woman in the story certainly deserves praise, both because she loved her husband and risked her life for him, and because she loved God, who, as we’ve seen, never abandoned her.’
‘As to the first point,’ came in Ennasuite, ‘I think there is not a woman amongst us who would not do the same to save her husband’s life.’
‘And I think,’ said Parlamente, ‘that some husbands are such stupid beasts that women who live with them should not find anything odd about living with their wild cousins!’
Ennasuite took this remark to be aimed at her, and could not resist replying: ‘Provided they didn’t bite, I’d prefer the company of wild beasts to the company of men who are bad-tempered and unbearable! But as I was going to say, if my husband were in danger, like the man in this story, I would not leave him, no, not if it cost me my life.’
‘You should be careful not to love him too much,’ said Nomerfide. ‘Too much love could lead you both astray. There’s a happy medium for everything. If there’s a failure of understanding, love may engender hatred.’
‘I don’t think you would have made that point,’ said Simontaut, ‘if you weren’t intending to confirm it with some example. So if you have one, I invite you to take my place and tell it to us.’
‘Well then,’ she answered, ‘I shall make it short and sweet, as is my wont.’
STORY SIXTY-EIGHT
In the town of Pau, in the Béarn, there was once an apothecary by the name of Étienne. He was married, and his wife was a good woman, an excellent housewife and attractive enough to keep him contented. But just as he had an expert taste for the different types of drugs he dispensed, so it was with women. He liked to try out the various kinds, so as to be more knowledgeable about their different constitutions, and this so vexed his wife that she was beginning to lose all patience. For he took no notice at all of her – except in Holy Week, by way of penance. One day while the apothecary was in his shop, his wife hid behind the door to listen to what he was saying to the customers. A woman came in who was a close friend and neighbour. She happened to be suffering from the same trouble as the apothecary’s wife.
‘Oh dear! neighbour,’ she began, ‘I’m the most miserable woman in the world. I love my husband more than myself! I can think of nothing but how to serve and obey him. But all my efforts are in vain, because he’d rather have the nastiest, foullest, filthiest female in town than me. So I was wondering, neighbour, if you might have some medicine that might change him… If you have, could you let me have some? I promise I’ll pay you back in any way I can, if he treats me well again.’
To console her he replied that he did know of a certain powder. If she put it in her husband’s soup or on his roast, like poudre de duc, * he would give her the biggest treat in the world. The poor woman was only too eager for this miracle to come about, and she asked what the powder was and if she could get hold of some. There was nothing in it but Spanish fly powder, he replied, and he had plenty of that in stock. Before leaving, she persuaded him to prepare the powder properly, and took with her the quantity he prescribed for what she wanted. Later she had occasion to thank him profusely for his trouble. Her husband, who was a strong, well-built man and had not taken too large a dose, felt none the worse for it – [and she felt considerably better]!
The apothecary’s wife had heard her husband serving their neighbour, and it occurred to her that she had need of this prescription herself. So she took careful note of where he put what was left of the powder, intending to make use of it when she had the chance. Her opportunity arrived three or four days later, when her husband began to feel a chill in the stomach, and asked her if she would make him a broth. She told him a roast sprinkled with poudre de duc would be better for him and was promptly ordered to take some cinnamon and sugar from the shop and get one ready. This of course she did, not forgetting to help herself to the remainder of the powder that had been given to the neighbour but giving no thought whatsoever to weight, measure or dosage. The husband ate his roast, and at first thought it very good. But he soon began to feel the effects – which he tried to alleviate with the aid of his wife. To no avail! He felt as if his insides were on fire. He did not know which way to turn. Then he accused her of poisoning him, and demanded to know what she had put in the roast. She admitted the truth – that she was as much in need of a potion as the neighbour. The poor man would have beaten her if he could, but he was in such torture that he could only manage curses. He ordered her to go out and fetch the Queen of Navarre’s apothecary, who eventually came and administered the remedies necessary to cure him. It was not long before he recovered, and the royal apothecary reprimanded him [so severely for recommending drugs he would not take himself that he inwardly passed judgement on himself for committing a reckless act, and admitted that his wife had only acted properly, seeing that she had merely wished to make him love her.
Thus the poor man was obliged to accept his foolishness and acknowledge that God had justly punished him in turning upon him the trick that had been intended for someone else.]
*
‘It seems to me, Ladies, that this woman’s love for her husband was no less indiscreet than it was deeply felt.’
‘Do you call it loving her husband,’ demanded Hircan, ‘when she made him suffer merely for the sake of the pleasure she hoped to have?’
‘I think she only wanted to win her husband’s love back,’ replied Longarine, ‘when she thought she had lost it. Th
ere is nothing a woman would not do for such a treasure.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Geburon, ‘a woman ought not to cook for her husband, whatever the reason, unless she knows from her own experience or from the experts that it won’t be harmful to him. [But if ignorance has to be excused, then I suppose this woman must be excused.] For the most blinding passion of all is love, and the blindest person of all is the woman who can’t bear the burden wisely and well.’
‘Geburon, you are departing from your customary excellent sentiments,’ said Oisille, ‘and joining the ranks of your companions. But I insist that there are women who have borne the burden of love and jealousy with patience and restraint.’
‘Yes, and they enjoy themselves at the same time,’ said Hircan, ‘for the wisest ones are the ones who have as much fun laughing at their husbands’ antics, as their husbands have in trying to go behind their backs. If you will permit me to speak next, so that Madame Oisille may follow me with the closing story of the day, I’ll tell you one about a man and a wife who are well known to all of you.’
‘Then begin,’ said Nomerfide.
And, with a laugh, Hircan began his story.
STORY SIXTY-NINE
In the château of Odos, in Bigorre, there lived an equerry of the King, one Carlo by name, an Italian, who had married a noble and virtuous lady. Unfortunately she had now aged somewhat, having borne him a number of children. Not being all that young himself, he was content to live with her on peaceable and friendly terms. However, from time to time he would chat to her maids. She never made a fuss about this, but just quietly dismissed them whenever they seemed to be getting too friendly with [him]. One of the maids she took on was a very good, well-behaved young girl, and she decided to tell her what her husband was like, warning her that she was in the habit of turning girls out if she found them misbehaving. The maid wanted to stay in her mistress’s good books and not lose her position, so she made up her mind to be an honest woman. The master often accosted her, of course, but she would turn a deaf ear and run straight off to tell her mistress. They used to laugh together about his silly behaviour.
The Heptameron Page 54