The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

  So saying, she collapsed on the bed. Her face became pale, her lips blue, her extremities cold. At that very instant the man whom she loved came into the hall. He had seen the Duchess dancing with the others, and looked all round for his lady. He could see her nowhere and went into the Duchess’s room, where he found the Duke, who, guessing who he was looking for, whispered in his ear, ‘She went into this dressing-room, and appeared unwell’. The young man then asked if he might enter, and the Duke replied that he might. There he found the Lady of Vergy, bidding farewell to her mortal life. He took her up in his arms, saying, ‘What is this, my love? Do you desire to leave me?’ Hearing the voice she knew so well, the poor lady regained a little strength, and opened her eyes to look at the man who was the cause of her death. But as she gazed, love and grief welled so vehemently within her that with a piteous sigh she gave up her soul to God. The young man, more dead, if it were possible, than she who was already dead, demanded of the young woman how this sickness had overcome his lady. Every word that she had overheard she retold to him. Now he knew that the Duke had revealed his secret to his wife, and so over-whelmed was he with the fury of despair that he took his beloved’s body in his arms and washed her face with his tears, saying:

  ‘O traitor, base and wretched lover that I am! Why has not the punishment for my treachery fallen upon my head? Why upon her who is innocent? Why did not heaven strike me down the day my tongue revealed our secret, virtuous love? Why did not the earth open and swallow me up, false and faithless as I am? O my tongue, may you burn like Dives’ tongue in Hell! O my heart, too afraid of death and banishment, may you ever more be torn apart by eagles, as was the heart of Ixion!* Alas! my love, the sorrow of sorrows, the most sorrowful of sorrows, is upon me! Thinking to hold you fast, I have lost you. Thinking to see you live a long, a happy and a virtuous life, I hold you dead in my arms displeased in the last extremity with me, my heart and my tongue! O you who were the most faithful and most loyal woman in all the world, myself I denounce as the most unfaithful, most disloyal man of all the men who ever lived! Would that I could blame the Duke, whose word I trusted, hoping that I could prolong our happy life. But, alas! I should have known that no one could keep my secret better than myself. The Duke had more reason to tell his wife than I had to tell him. Myself alone I accuse of the greatest crime ever committed between lovers and friends! I should have submitted myself to the sentence he threatened me with, I should have been thrown in the river. Then, at least, my love, you would have lived a widow, and I should have gone to a glorious death as the law of true love commands. But I, who have broken the law of true love, live, while you, who have loved truly, lie here dead! For your pure and innocent heart could not bear to live and know the vice with which your lover is tainted. My God, why did you create me a man, a man whose heart knows nothing and whose love is light? Why was I not created to be her little dog, who served his mistress faithfully? Alas, my little friend, the joy I used to feel when I heard your bark is turned to sorrow, for I let another hear your voice! And yet, my love, it was not the Duchess, though many a time she assailed me with her base solicitations, who made me waver, nor was it any other woman in this world. It was ignorance that brought me down, for in my ignorance I thought that I could secure our love for evermore. But ignorance makes my guilt no less, for I have revealed my lady’s secret, I have broken my solemn promise. And it is for that alone that she now lies dead before my eyes! Alas! my love, death would be less cruel to me than it has been to you – you who have ended your own innocent life because you have truly loved. Yet I think death will not deign to touch my faithless, wretched heart, for ten thousand deaths would be easier to bear than the life I shall lead, dishonoured, and tormented by the memory of a loss caused by none other than myself. Alas! my love, had it been that someone in hatred or by mischance had dared to kill you, then I would at once have taken up my sword to avenge you. Reason demands therefore that I do not pardon the murderer who has caused your death by a deed more vile than any thrust of any sword. If I knew an executioner more odious than I, I would surely plead with him to put to death your treacherous lover. O Love! you too have I offended in loving so imperfectly, and so the succour that you gave to her who kept your laws you rightly now refuse to me. What reason could I have to expect an end so noble? No, reason demands that I die by my own hand! And now that I have bathed your face with tears, now that with my tongue I have asked you for forgiveness, it remains only that my arm stretch out my body even as your own and send my soul whither yours will fly, in the knowledge that true and virtuous love shall never end, in this world or the next!’

  He raised himself over the corpse like a man deranged and, bereft of all sense, drew his dagger, and with tremendous force stabbed himself through the heart. Then he took her in his arms again, kissing her so fondly, that one would have thought these were the throes of love not death. Seeing what had happened, the young woman ran out shouting for help. The Duke, hearing the cries and guessing that some disaster had overtaken those whom he loved so dearly, was the first to enter. He did his best to separate the piteous couple in the hope of saving the young man at least. But the young man held so fast to his lady’s body that it was impossible to pull him off until he was dead. Yet he had heard the Duke, who had cried out, ‘Alas! Who is the cause of all this?’, for he had stared back at him like a madman, and replied, ‘The cause, my lord, is my tongue, and yours!’ And it was as he uttered those words that he died, with his cheek pressed firmly against his beloved’s face.

  The Duke, desiring to know more, ordered the young woman to tell him everything that she had heard and seen, and she told her tale from start to finish, leaving nothing out. The Duke, realizing that it was he who was the cause of this calamity, threw himself on top of the two dead lovers. He wept and cried out in anguish, he covered their faces with kisses, he called upon them to pardon his sin. Then in a frenzied rage he rose, drew the dagger from the young man’s body, and like the wild boar which, wounded by a spear, runs headlong at the hunter who has thrown it, he ran from the room in pursuit of the woman who had wounded him to the depths of his soul. She was dancing in the hall, gayer than usual, content in the thought that she had taken revenge on the Lady of Vergy. Storming into the midst of the dancers, the Duke seized hold of her. ‘You swore on your life to keep the secret, and with your life you shall pay for what you have done!’ As he spoke he pulled her head back by her veil, and stuck the dagger in her breast. The whole company, overcome with horror, thought he must have lost his reason. But his deed done, the Duke called all his liegemen round him in the hall to recount the piteous and noble story of his niece, and the cruel action of his wife. It was a tale that did not fail to call forth the tears of those who listened to it. Later he ordered an abbey to be founded to atone in part for the murder of his wife, and in it he ordered her to be buried. In it too he ordered a magnificent tomb to be built where his niece and the young nobleman might rest together, with an epitaph telling of their tragedy. Then he made an expedition against the Turks, and God granted him such success that he returned a wealthy and much honoured man. Finding that in the meantime his eldest son had grown and learned to govern his father’s lands, the Duke left all he had to him, and withdrew to the religious life in the very abbey where his wife and the two lovers were buried. There, in the sight of God, he peacefully passed away his old age.

  *

  ‘That, Ladies, is the story you asked me to tell you. I can tell from the looks in your eyes that it hasn’t left you unmoved. I think you should let it stand as an example to you not to fix your affection on men, for, however pure and virtuous your affection may be, it will always lead to some disastrous conclusion. You will remember that Saint Paul preferred love such as this not to exist even between husband and wife. For, the more one fixes one’s affection on earthly things, the further one is from heavenly affection. And the more one’s love is virtuous and noble, the more difficult it is to break the bond. And so, Ladies, I beg you
to pray to God [at all times] to grant you His Holy Spirit, that your hearts may be so inflamed with love of Him that at the hour of your death you will be spared the suffering that comes from loving too dearly things that must be left behind on earth.’

  ‘If their love was as virtuous and noble as your account depicts it,’ said [Hircan], ‘then why did it have to be kept so secret?’

  ‘Because,’ replied Parlamente, ‘men are so malicious that they can never believe that great love and virtue can be joined together, for they make judgements about vice in men and women in accordance with their own passions. And that is why any woman who has a close male friend other than her nearest relatives, needs to talk with him in secret, if she wishes to talk with him for any length of time at all. Whether a lady’s love is virtuous or vicious, doubt may be cast on her honour, because people only judge by what they see.’

  ‘But,’ said Geburon, ‘people think even worse things about women when secrets like this are eventually disclosed.’

  ‘You are right, I admit,’ said Longarine. ‘And it follows that the best thing is not to love at all!’

  ‘That is a sentence against which we beg leave to appeal,’ said Dagoucin. ‘If we thought that ladies were really without love, we should prefer to be without life. I’m referring to those men who live only for the sake of the love of a lady. Though they may never reach their goal, they are sustained by hope, and by it are led on to accomplish countless honourable deeds until in old age their noble and virtuous passions turn into sufferings of another kind. If it were generally believed that ladies were incapable of love, then, instead of following the profession of arms, we should all turn into mere merchants, and instead of winning honour, seek only to pile up wealth!’

  ‘You mean to say then,’ said Hircan, ‘that if there were no ladies, we would all be [merchants]? As if we only had any courage at all because it was bestowed on us by women! I take quite the contrary view. Nothing debases a man’s courage more than frequenting women and getting too fond of them. That’s why the Hebrews forbade their men to go to war during the first year of their marriage – for fear they would shrink from taking the kind of risks expected of them, because they were still too fond of their wives!’

  ‘If you ask me,’ said Saffredent, ‘that was not a very sensible law, because there’s nothing more likely to make a man want to get away from home than being married! War abroad is certainly no harder to endure than strife at home! In my opinion, if you want to persuade men to stop sitting at home and go to foreign parts, you should make them marry.’

  ‘It is quite true,’ said Ennasuite, ‘that marriage removes from them the burden of care for their house and home, because they rely on their wives to do that job for them and think only of winning honour, confidently leaving it to the wives to look after their domestic interests in an adequate fashion.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ replied Saffredent, ‘I’m glad that there’s at least some agreement between us!’

  ‘But,’ intervened Parlamente, ‘what you’re discussing now isn t really the most important point. The most important question is why the gentleman, who was the cause of the whole disaster, did not immediately die of sorrow himself, like the lady, who was completely innocent.’

  ‘It’s because women love more deeply than men,’ said Nomerfide.

  ‘No,’ said Simontaut, ‘it’s because when women become bitter and jealous, they give up the ghost without knowing why. Men, on the other hand, are more prudent, and like to find out the truth of the matter first. Once the truth is known, thanks to their good sense, they will demonstrate the greatness of their hearts. This was how the young man in the story acted. Once he had realized that he was the cause of his lady’s suffering, he showed the extent of his love for her, and took his own life.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Ennasuite, ‘she died for true love, because her steadfast, loyal heart could not endure the pain of being so treacherously deceived.’

  ‘The fact was,’ said Simontaut, ‘that her jealousy gave her no room to use her reason. She was convinced, wrongly, that her lover had acted in a base manner, and being so convinced, she had no choice but to die. There was nothing she could do. But her lover’s death, once he’d recognized that he’d done wrong, was voluntary.’

  ‘Yet to cause such mortal grief, her love must have been very deep,’ said Nomerfide.

  ‘Then you’ve no need to worry,’ said Hircan. ‘You’re not likely to succumb to that particular fever!’

  ‘No more than you’re likely to shorten your life because you realize what wrongs you’ve committed!’ she retorted.

  Suspecting that this argument might turn out not to be in her own best interests, Parlamente intervened, laughing, and said: ‘I think two people dying for love is quite enough, without having two more coming to blows for the same cause. Anyway, there’s the last bell for vespers, and that will break up our gathering, whether you like it or not.’

  At her bidding, the whole company rose, and went to hear vespers. In their prayers they did not forget to pray for the souls of the true lovers, and the monks agreed of their own free will to say a De profundis for them. Throughout supper, too, they talked of nothing but the Lady of Vergy. After talking thus a while together, they each retired to their rooms. And so the seventh day came to a close.

  END OF THE SEVENTH DAY

  EIGHTH DAY

  PROLOGUE

  When morning came they inquired how work on their bridge was progressing, and learned that it might be completed within two or three days. Some of them were rather sorry to hear this, for they would have liked it to take longer, so that they might continue to enjoy the happy life they were leading. But, recognizing that there were only two or three days left, they made up their minds to make the most of them. Oisille was asked to administer her spiritual nourishment, as was her wont, and this she did, though she kept them longer than usual, being anxious that they should reach the end of the canonical epistles of Saint John before leaving. So well did she deliver the reading that the Holy Spirit, full of sweetness and love, seemed to be speaking through her mouth. Inflamed with this fire they went off to hear high mass. After that they dined together, still talking about the previous day’s story-telling and challenging one another to make the new day its equal. And to ensure that it should be so, they each withdrew for a while to their rooms in order to prepare their stories. At the appointed hour, they came to present their accounts in the meadow, where the grass stretched out like green baize across a table top. The monks had already arrived and taken their places. When everyone was seated, they asked who should begin.

  ‘You have done me the honour,’ said Saffredent, ‘of letting me begin two days. I think it would be unfair to the ladies if one of them also did not begin two days.’

  ‘In that case,’ replied Oisille, ‘we must either stay here longer, or else one of you and one of us must go without starting a second day.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Dagoucin, ‘I would have given my place to Saffredent, had I been chosen.’

  ‘And as for me,’ said Nomerfide, ‘I would have given mine to Parlamente, for accustomed as I am to serve, I could not command.’

  With this everyone agreed, and Parlamente began to speak.

  ‘Ladies, every day so far has been taken up with so many wise tales that I would like to propose that today should be taken up with stories which are the most foolish and the most true we can think of. So, to start you going, I shall begin.’

  STORY SEVENTY-ONE

  In the town of Amboise there was once a saddler by the name of Brimbaudier. He was saddle-maker to the Queen of Navarre, and as for his character, you could tell from the colour of his face that he was a servant of Bacchus, rather than a servant of the priests of Diana. He had married a good woman, who managed his home [and children] very capably, and he was very contented. One day word was brought to him that his wife was dangerously ill. He was greatly afflicted at this, and set off as fast as
he could to see what he could do for her. But he found the poor woman so far gone that a confessor rather than a doctor was what was required. His distress was piteous to behold. To report it really truthfully, I ought to put on a throaty voice like his, and it’d be even better if I could imitate the expression on his face. When he had done for her everything he possibly could, she asked to be given a cross, and he had one brought for her. This spectacle was too much for the poor fellow. He threw himself in desperation on to a bed, bellowing away in his funny thick voice: ‘Woe is me! I’m going to lose my wife! What’ll I do? Woe is me!’* and the like. Eventually he looked up and realized there was no one else in the room, apart from a little chambermaid – a pretty lass, and shapely too. He called her across to him and said, ‘My dear, I’m going to die, no, it’s worse than if I was already dead and gone, seeing your mistress dying like that. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say, except I need you to help me. Take the keys I’ve got hanging at my side. Look after the house and children for me. Do the housekeeping, because I can’t manage any more!’