The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

  One day the chambermaid was sifting grain in a room at the back of the house. She was wearing her smock over her head as they do in that part of the world – it’s a garment like a hood, but it covers the shoulders and falls full length at the back. Well, along comes the master, and seeing her in this attire, he eagerly starts to make overtures. She would not for a moment have given in, but she led him on by asking if she could first of all go to make sure that his wife was busy – so that they should not be caught, she said. He agreed, and she suggested that he put her smock over his own head, and get on with the sifting in the meantime, so that the mistress would not wonder why the noise had stopped. He was only too eager to agree to this plan. At last he was going to have what he wanted. But the girl, who was certainly not devoid of a sense of humour, ran off at once to the lady of the house. ‘Come and have a look at that husband of yours,’ she said, ‘I’ve shown him how to sift, to get rid of him!’ They hurried back to see this newly acquired servant. When the wife saw him, with the hood of the smock over his head and the sieve in his hands, she burst out laughing, and clapped her hands in glee. She eventually managed to say: ‘Well, lass, how much a month do you want me to pay you?’ The husband recognized the voice and realized he had been tricked. He threw his smock and his sieve to the ground in a rage, and turned on the maid, calling her all the names under the sun. If his wife had not intervened he would have paid her her due and turned her out then and there. However, in the end everyone calmed down, and from then on they lived under the same roof without a cross word.

  *

  ‘What do you say about that woman, Ladies? Wasn’t it sensible of her to have fun when her husband was trying to have fun too?’

  ‘I don’t see that he had much fun,’ commented Saffredent, ‘if he failed in his intentions.’

  ‘I would think,’ said Ennasuite, ‘that he had more fun laughing at it with his wife, than he would have had if he had managed to have his way. It could have killed him at his age!’

  ‘Even so,’ said Simontaut, ‘I would have been extremely annoyed to be found with my chambermaid’s smock over my head!’

  ‘I’ve heard,’ said Parlamente, ‘that it was only thanks to your wife that you were not caught out in some such attire, in spite of your cunning, and she’s not had a moment’s peace ever since.’

  ‘Stick to stories about your own household,’ said Simontaut, ‘without prying into mine – though I would add that my wife has no cause to complain about me. And even if what you say about me were true, she would never notice. There’s no reason why she should – she has all her needs satisfied.’

  ‘Honest women need nothing,’ said Longarine, ‘but their husband’s love, which alone can content them. And women who seek nothing but animal satisfaction never find it within the limits prescribed by honour.’

  ‘Do you call it animal satisfaction, when a woman wants from her husband what she is entitled to?’ demanded Geburon.

  ‘What I say is this,’ she answered, ‘that a chaste woman whose heart is filled with true love has more satisfaction from being loved perfectly, than she possibly could from all the pleasures that the body could desire.’

  ‘I am entirely of your opinion,’ said Dagoucin, ‘although the noble lords here would never accept it or admit it. I believe that if a woman is not contented by mutual love in the first place, there is nothing at all a husband can do on his own to content her. I mean, if she does [not] live in accordance with what is honourable for women in matters of love, then she is bound to be tempted by infernal animal concupiscence.’

  ‘What you say reminds me,’ said Oisille, ‘of a lady who was very beautiful, who was well married and who, because she did not live in accordance with what is honourable in love, did in fact become more carnal in her desires than swine and more cruel than the lions.’

  ‘Madame, will you tell us this story, and bring our storytelling to a close for the day?’ asked Simontaut.

  ‘There are two reasons why I ought not to,’ she replied. ‘One is that it is a long story, and the other is that it is not a story of our time, and although it is by a reliable author, we have after all sworn not to tell stories from a written source.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Parlamente, ‘but if it’s the story I think it is, then it’s written in such antiquated language, that apart from you and me, there’s no one here who will have heard it. So it can be regarded as a new one.’*

  Thereupon they all urged Oisille to tell the tale. She should not worry about the length, they assured her, as there was still a good hour to go before vespers. So, at their bidding, she began.

  STORY SEVENTY

  In the Duchy of Burgundy, there was once a Duke and a virtuous and handsome prince he was. He had married a lady whose beauty gave him such great happiness that he was blind to her true character. His only desire was to please her, and for her part she gave all the appearance of returning his affection. Now in the Duke’s service there was a young nobleman, endowed with all the perfections a man should have, and greatly loved by all around him. The Duke himself, who had brought up the young man in his own household, was especially fond of him. Indeed, so fond of him was he, and so impressed by his excellent qualities, that he entrusted to him all the affairs that a young man of his age and experience could reasonably undertake.

  The Duchess’s heart was not the heart of a virtuous wife and princess, and neither the love her husband bore her nor the gentle way he treated her brought her satisfaction. Often she would cast glances at the young nobleman. The sight of him pleased her, and she began to feel a love for him beyond all reason. She strove continually to make this known to him, casting tender, doleful glances at him, sighing heavily, and putting on impassioned airs. But he, who had been schooled in virtue and in virtue alone, could see no vice in a lady who had no cause to turn to vice, so that for all her glances and her airs the poor, impassioned creature reaped no reward but wild desperation. One day her desperation drove her to forget that she was a wife whose duty was to receive advances and reject them, to forget that she was a princess who ought to receive the adoration of her servants while disdaining them, until, with the reckless courage of one beside herself, she sought to quench the unbearable flames within her. It was a day when the Duke had gone to Council. The young man, because of his age, was not admitted, and the Duchess summoned him to her side. Thinking that she had some order to give him, he came at once. But she led him into a gallery, and strolled with him there, leaning on his arm, and sighing like a woman weary of a life of too much ease:

  ‘I am amazed by you,’ she said to him. ‘You are young, handsome and so full of every grace. You have lived in our household where you meet many beautiful women. And yet you have never been in love with any of them. You have never been devoted to the service of a single one.’ And, looking at him with as steady an eye as she could, she said no more, giving him time to reply.

  ‘Madame,’ he began, ‘if your grace would deign to consider my position, it might appear more amazing if a man such as I, unworthy as I am of love, were seen to offer service and devotion to some lady, only to be rejected or ridiculed.’

  Hearing this modest reply, the Duchess loved him more than ever, and swore to him that there was not a woman at her court who would not be overjoyed to have such a man devoted to her service. Nor should he fear to take his chance in love, for he would risk nothing, and would surely acquit himself with honour. The heat of a passion hot enough to melt the hardest ice was written in her face, and the young man looked down at the ground, not daring to meet her eyes. He was about to take his leave, when the Duke called his wife to the Council about a matter that concerned her. So it was she who, with great reluctance, took her leave of him.

  The young man gave no sign that he had understood a single word of what she had been trying to say to him. This so puzzled and annoyed her that she did not know what to blame for her difficulty, unless it be the foolish fear by which she believed the young man was beset. So
me days later, since he seemed still not to have understood her words, she made up her mind to have no thought for shame or fear and make her passion plain to him. She was certain that beauty such as hers could not but be welcomed, and though she would have preferred to have had the honour of a servant’s supplications, she put honour aside to favour pleasure. She tried a few more times to convey her meaning, as on the first occasion, but still did not receive the response that she desired. So one day she took the young gentleman aside on the pretext of having some important piece of business to discuss with him. He, with due respect and humility, followed her as she went over to a window recess, where no one else in the room could see them. Torn between apprehension and desire, she began, with tremulous voice, by addressing him in the same terms as before. She reproached him for not having yet chosen a lady in her court, and again assured him that, whoever he might choose, she would herself help to ensure that he would be favourably received. He was taken aback and distressed at this, and replied:

  ‘Madame, my heart is true, and if the lady of my choice were to refuse me, I could never know happiness again in this world. I know that there is no lady in this court who would ever deign to admit a person such as myself to her service.’

  The Duchess blushed deeply, for she believed that there was nothing now which could prevent the conquest. She swore to him that the most beautiful lady in the court would, if he so desired, be overcome with joy to receive him and he would have perfect contentment from her.

  ‘Alas! Madame,’ he said, ‘I cannot believe that there is any woman in this court so unfortunate and so blind as to make me the object of her affections.’

  Seeing that still he was refusing to understand what she was saying to him, she lifted a little the veil that hid her passionate desires, and, fearful of the young man’s virtue, she phrased her declaration as a question, saying:

  ‘Suppose that Fortune had so favoured you that it was I myself who bore you such goodwill – then what would you say?’

  He thought he must be dreaming to hear such words, and went down on one knee, saying:

  ‘Madame, if by the grace of God I am granted the favour of the Duke my master and of yourself, then I shall consider myself the happiest man in the world, for I would ask no greater reward for my loyal service, being above all other men bound to lay down my life to serve you, and being sure, Madame, that the love you bear my lord is deep and chaste – so deep and chaste that no one, not even the greatest prince and most perfect man on earth, far less I, a mere worm, could ever mar the union that joins your grace with my sovereign lord. He has cared for me since I was a child, and has made me what I have become. Therefore, I could never entertain thoughts about his wife, daughter, sister or mother, other than those that a loyal and faithful servant owes to his master, and I would sooner die than do so…’

  The Duchess would not let him continue. Seeing that she was in danger of suffering a dishonourable defeat, she interrupted his words abruptly, saying:

  ‘Oh, wicked, vainglorious and foolish young man! Who has invited you to entertain such thoughts? Do you believe yourself so handsome that the very flies are enamoured of you? If by any chance you were presumptuous enough to make advances to me, I would soon show you that I love no one but my husband and have no desire to do otherwise. And when I spoke to you as I did, I did so for my own amusement, to find out about you, and laugh at you as I laugh at all amorous young fools!’

  ‘Madame,’ he replied, ‘that is what I thought, and I believe what you say.’

  Without waiting to hear more, she made off in haste towards her room, but seeing that her ladies-in-waiting were following, she slipped into her private chamber, there to pour forth her woe. Her affliction was indescribable, for, on the one hand, she had failed in love and felt mortally wounded, while on the other, she was angry both with herself for speaking so rashly and with him for replying in such a virtuous manner. This drove her to such fury that at one moment she wanted to do away with herself, and at the next wanted to live to wreak revenge on the man whom she now saw as her mortal enemy.

  After weeping for a long time, she decided to pretend to be ill, in order to avoid being present at supper, during which the young man customarily attended the Duke. But the Duke, who loved his wife more than he loved himself, came to see her. And she, the better to achieve her ends, told him that she believed herself to be pregnant and that the pregnancy had brought on a most painful cold in the eyes. For the next two or three days she remained in bed, in such a melancholic state that the Duke guessed that something other than pregnancy was the cause. So the next night he came to sleep in her bed. But in spite of his kind words and caresses he could not stop her continual sighing.

  ‘My love,’ he began, ‘you know that I love you more than life itself. If I were to lose you, I could not continue to live. If you care for my health, then I beg you to tell me what it is that makes you sigh so much. I cannot believe that such suffering comes from pregnancy alone.’

  The Duchess could not have found him better disposed towards her for her purposes, and judged the time ripe to take revenge for the affront she had received. Putting her arms about her husband’s neck, she began to weep, saying: ‘Alas! The greatest grief I have is to see you deceived by people whose duty it ought to be to protect your honour and all that you have.’

  Hearing these words, the Duke desired greatly to know what lay behind them, and he urged her not to be afraid to tell the truth. She refused, and refused again to tell him, but then at last she said:

  ‘In the future, Monsieur, I shall not be surprised to hear of foreigners making war on princes, when those who are most beholden to their lords dare undertake such cruel deeds that loss of land and loss of wealth are as nothing to compare. I speak, Monsieur, of a certain gentleman…’ And she named the young man she had now come to hate so much, and went on: ‘a man whom you yourself have reared, a man who has been treated more as a relative and son than as a servant, and who has now committed so mean and cruel an act as to seek to sully the honour of your wife upon which the honour of your family and your children rests. Although he has long sought to give me sign of his wicked intentions, yet my heart, which has regard for you alone, could not comprehend, and so in the end he came and declared himself openly. I gave him such reply as my estate and chastity required, but my hatred of him now is such that I cannot bear to look at him. And this it is that made me stay within my room and forgo the joy of your company. Therefore, I beg you, my lord, shun this evil man as if he were the plague. For, after such a crime and fearing lest I recount it to you, he may resort to acts far worse. And so, Monsieur, that is the cause of my sorrow, which it seems only meet and right for you to deal with in all haste.’

  The Duke, who on the one hand loved his wife dearly and felt that he had been gravely insulted, on the other hand so loved his loyal servant that he could scarcely believe these lies to be the truth. In deep distress and filled with anger, he retired to his room, and sent command that the young man was not to appear before him again, but was to retire to his lodgings for a period of time. The young man, not knowing the reason, was more deeply mortified than anyone could be, knowing that he had deserved the very opposite of such treatment. Sure of his innocence in thought and in deed, he sent a friend to speak to the Duke on his behalf and to bear a letter, saying that if it was on account of some ill report that he was banished from his master’s presence, he humbly begged that he would suspend his judgement until he had heard the truth. Then the Duke would learn that he had in no way been insulted. On seeing the letter, the Duke moderated his anger a little, and sent for the young man to come secretly to see him in his room. With his rage written in his face, he said:

  ‘I would never have thought that after caring for you so tenderly, as if you were my own son, I should ever have regretted doing so much for you. I would never have believed that you would try to cause me far greater harm than ever loss of life or property could, that you would try to stain the hono
ur of the one who is the other half of my self, and disgrace my family and lineage for evermore. You will perfectly understand that an affront of this nature is so deeply wounding to my heart that had it not been for some doubt still lingering in my mind, I should long ago have had you drowned, to punish you in secret for the dishonour you have in secret sought to bring on me!’

  But the young man was not dismayed by this speech. Unaware of what the Duchess had said, he continued to speak without any hesitation, and besought the Duke to tell him who was his accuser. For, he said, swords not words should answer in such a matter.

  ‘Your accuser,’ said the Duke, ‘bears no arms but the armour of chastity. It was my wife, and no one else, who told me, and who begged me to avenge her.’

  Although he saw how great were the evil intentions of the Duchess, the poor young man still held back from accusing her in his turn, but replied thus:

  ‘Madame may speak as she pleases, my lord. You know her better than I. And you will know whether or no I have ever seen her other than in your company, except for one occasion when she said very little to me. Your judgement is as true as that of any prince [in Christendom.] Therefore, I beg of you, my lord, judge whether my behaviour has ever been such as to give you any grounds for suspicion. The fire of love cannot for long be hidden before it is recognized by those who have suffered the same disease. I would ask of you, my lord, to accept my word concerning two things. The first is that my loyalty to you is so true that even were Madame your wife the most beautiful creature in the world, still love would never have the power to stain my honour and my faith; and the second is that even were she not your wife, she of all the women in the world is the one whose love I least would seek; there are many others to whom [my fancy] would be sooner drawn.’