a 
 
 1/ 
 

 
 THE FORTUNATE LOVERS.
 
 WRITI NGS 
 
 OF 
 
 A. MARY F. ROBINSON. 
 
 - — ■*■ — 
 
 A HANDFUL OF HONEYSUCKLE. Kegan 
 Paul. 
 
 THE CROAWNED HIPPOLYTUS. Kegan Taul. 
 
 EMILY BRONTE. (Eminent Women Series.) 
 
 ARDEN : A Novel. Longmans. 
 
 THE NEW ARCADIA, Longmans. 
 
 AN ITALIAN GARDEN. Fisher Unwin. 
 
 MARGARET OF ANGOULEME. (Eminent 
 Women Series.)
 
 THE 
 
 FORTUNATE LOVERS 
 
 TWENTY-SEVEN NOVELS OF THE 
 QUEEN OF NAVARRE 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL FRENCH 
 Bv ARTHUR MAC HEN 
 
 EDITED, AND SELECTED FROM THE HEPTAMERON, WITH NOTES, 
 PEDIGREES, AND AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 B Y A. MARY F. R O B 1 X S O N 
 
 GlSiith (Drigimil (Etching bu (5. ?J. Jacomb ^)ooii 
 
 LONDON 
 
 c; E O R I. ; E R K ] ) W A \ 
 YORK STREET, COVE NT GARDEN 
 
 MDCCCLXXXVII
 
 tro 
 
 THE LADIES AND ANTIQUARIES 
 OF ENGLAND.
 
 TABLE OF PERSONAGES. 
 
 Oisille, 
 
 Parlamente, 
 Hircan, 
 
 Longajine, 
 
 Ennasuitte, 
 SimoiitatiU, 
 
 Dagoiicin, 
 
 Gehiron, 
 Nomerfide, 
 
 Louise de Savoie. 
 
 Margaret of Angouleme. 
 Henry of Navarre. 
 
 Aimee Metier de la 
 Fayette. 
 
 Anne de Vivonne, Mnie. 
 
 de Bourdeille. 
 Fran9ois de Bourdeille. 
 
 Nicolas Dangu, 
 
 de Juilly. 
 M. de Burye. 
 Isabeau d'Albret. 
 
 Abb6 
 
 Saffredent, Rene de Rohan. 
 
 Franck, Genin, Lacroix, Le 
 Roux de Lincy. 
 
 Same authorities. 
 
 Franck. M. Le Roux de 
 Lincy suggested Charles of 
 Alen9on, but the arguments 
 of RL Franck carry convic- 
 tion. 
 
 Franck. INI. Le Roux sug- 
 gested Mme. de Chatillon, 
 who is obviously far too old. 
 M. Montaiglon gives his 
 vote to the daughter of 
 Aim6e: Fran^oise de Silly. 
 
 Le Roux de Lincy, followed by 
 all authorities. 
 
 Franck, followed by Montaiglon. 
 There is no ground for sup- 
 posing with Le Roux that 
 Simontault represents Henri 
 d'Albret. 
 
 Franck. Lacroix has declared 
 for the Comte D'Agoust. 
 
 Franck and Montaiglon. 
 
 Mary Robinson. Le Roux 
 declared for Mme. dc 
 Chateaubriand, Franck for 
 Mme. de Montpezat. 
 
 Mary Robinson. Franck in- 
 terprets this character as 
 Montpezat fa score of years 
 too old), Le Roux as Bon- 
 nivet, to whom the same ob- 
 jection must be made.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION i 
 
 PROLOGUE . . .... 55 
 
 DAY THE FIRST. 
 
 IN WHICH DAY ARE RECOUNTED THE BAD TURNS DONE BY 
 WOMEN TO MEN, AND BY MEN TO WOMEN. 
 
 NOVEL I. 
 
 The misdeeds of the wife of a certain proctor, who had a bishop for 
 
 her gallant ....... 70 
 
 NOVEL II. 
 
 The wife of a muleteer had rather death than dishonour . . 84 
 
 NOVEL IX. 
 A relation of a perfect love, and the pitiful end thereof . . 90 
 
 NOVEL X. 
 
 Florida, hard pressed by her lover, virtuously resists him, and on 
 
 his death takes the veil . .... 97
 
 X Contejits. 
 
 DAY THE SECOND. 
 
 ON THE SECOND DAY EACH ONE TELLS THE FIRST CONCEIT 
 THAT RISETH IN HIS BRAIN. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PROLOGUE 136 
 
 NOVEL xn. 
 
 A Duke of Florence would have his friend prostitute his sister to 
 
 him; but in place of love meets with death . . . 137 
 
 NOVEL XIII. 
 
 How a sea-captain served love with the sauce of religion . , 147 
 
 NOVEL XVIL 
 King Francis shows his courage that t is well approved . . 160 
 
 NOVEL XIX. 
 
 A pitiful case of two lovers who turn at last monk and nun . 166 
 
 DAY THE THIRD. 
 
 ON THE THIRD DAY RELATION IS MADE OF THE LADIES 
 THAT HAVE HAD NO AIINI BUT HONOUR ; AND OF THE 
 ABOMINABLE HYPOCRISY OF THE MONKS. 
 
 I'ROLOGUE . 180 
 
 NOVEL XXL 
 
 The steadfast and honourable love of Rolandine, who after many 
 
 sorrows at last finds happiness .... 181
 
 Contents. xi 
 
 NOVEL XXIV. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The cruelty of the Queen of Castille to one of her lovers, and the 
 
 profit he took thereby ..... 205 
 
 NOVEL xxvin. 
 
 A notable pasty, and what was found therein . . . 215 
 
 NOVEL XXIX. 
 A parson's ready wit . . . . . .218 
 
 DAY THE FOURTH. 
 
 ON THE FOURTH DAY RELATION IS MADE FOR THE MOST 
 PART OF THE VIRTUOUS PATIENCE AND LONG-SUFFER- 
 ING OF WOMEN TO WIN THEIR HUSBANDS ; AND OF THE 
 PRUDENCE USED OF MEN TOWARDS THEIR WIVES FOR 
 THE PRESERVING OF THE HONOUR OF THEIR HOUSES 
 AND LINEAGE. 
 
 PROLOGUE ....... 222 
 
 NOVEL XXXIL 
 
 The notable way in which a gentleman punished his wife whom he 
 
 had taken in adultery ..... 223 
 
 NOVEL XXXIV. 
 
 A very merry case of two Grey Friars who lodged in the house of a 
 
 butcher . . . . . . .231 
 
 NOVEL XXXIX. 
 In what manner my lord of Grignaulx exorcised an evil spirit . 236
 
 xii Ccntents. 
 
 NOVEL XL. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Wherein is given the cause wherefore Rolandine's father made 
 
 build the castle in the forest . ' . . . . 239 
 
 DAY THE FIFTH. 
 
 ON THE FIFTH DAY RELATION IS MADE OF THE VIRTUOUS- 
 NESS OF SUCH MAIDS AND WIVES OF WHOM HONOUR 
 HATH BEEN PREFERRED BEFORE PLEASURE ; OF THEM 
 LIKEWISE WHO HAVE DONE THE CONTRARY THERETO ; 
 AND OF THE SLMPLENESS OF CERTAIN OTHERS. 
 
 PROLOGUE . . ... . . .248 
 
 NOVEL XLIV. 
 
 How a Grey Friar, for telling the truth, receives two pigs in place 
 
 of one ....... 249 
 
 DAY THE SIXTH. 
 
 ON THE SIXTH DAY RELATION IS MADE OF THE DECEITS 
 BETWEEN MAN AND WOMAN, THROUGH COVETOUSNESS, 
 VENGEANCE, AND CRAFTINESS. 
 
 PROLOGUE 254 
 
 NOVEL LI. 
 
 The cruel and treacherous vengeance of an Italian nobleman upon 
 
 a woman that had done him a displeasure . . . 255
 
 Contents. xiii 
 
 NOVEL LV. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 How a widow sold a horse for a ducat and a cat for ninety-and-nine 260 
 
 NOVEL LVL 
 Of a cozening device of an old friar . . . * . 263 
 
 NOVEL LVIL 
 The great delectation taken by an English lord in a very small matter 270 
 
 NOVEL LX. 
 
 How a man, for putting too great trust in his wife, fell into much 
 
 misery ....... 274 
 
 DAY THE SEVENTH. 
 
 ON THE SEVENTH DAY RELATION IS MADE OF THEM THAT 
 HAVE DONE WHAT THEY LEAST DESIRED. 
 
 PROLOGUE ....... 280 
 
 NOVEL LXL 
 
 Of the shamelessness and impudency of a certain woman who for- 
 sook her husband's house to live with a canon . , 281 
 
 NOVEL LXIV. 
 
 A lady delaying to wed her lover, drove him into such inward 
 discontent that he turned friar, and would have no more 
 acquaintance with her . . . . . .291
 
 xiv Contents. 
 
 NOVEL LXV. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A very admirable miracle, which may serve as an example of all 
 
 others ..,.,. ... 296 
 
 NOVEL LXVL 
 
 A lord and lady sleeping together were mistaken by an old dame 
 for a prothonotary and a servant-maid, and were sharply 
 reproved of her ... . . 298 
 
 NOVEL LXVn. 
 
 How a woman trusted in God amidst the lions . . . 302 
 
 NOVEL LXXII. 
 
 The case of a monk and a nun that wrought evil in the presence of 
 
 the dead ....... 306 
 
 ALLIANCE OF THE HOUSES OF ROHAN, ANGOU- 
 
 LEME, AND BRITTANY . . . facittg page 181 
 
 PEDIGREE OF MARGARET OF ANGOULEME . .3" 
 
 HOUSE OF ORLEANS 312
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I. 
 
 1509. 
 
 The bride was seventeen years old, tall, of a slender 
 carriage, and there were enthusiasts who avowed that 
 she was beautiful, so highly did they rate that air of 
 humility blended with innate distinction, those thick 
 blonde tresses, and the smile of pathetic radiance 
 that lit the large features and the small expressive 
 eyes. A less indulgent critic would deny the gift of 
 beauty to Margaret of Angouleme ; but she was at 
 least a young girl upon her wedding day. There were, 
 however, so many royal personages at the wedding, 
 that half the lookers-on forgot the bride. 
 
 Behind Madame Marguerite and her bridegroom, the 
 dull and rustic young Duke of Alen9on, stood a childish 
 pair, themselves contracted in the bonds of marriage. 
 The wife was the only child of the King and Queen of 
 France, a plain and delicate girl of ten years old ; 
 the husband looked a dark vivacious lad of fifteen, 
 eager and chivalrous, as became a descendant of Saint 
 Louis, who numbered among his nearer ancestry Louis 
 of Orleans and Philip of Burgundy, the wise Duke 
 of Milan, the " Green Count " of Savoy, the fantastic 
 Pope Felix V., and the romantic Kings of Cyprus. 
 This picturesque and charming lad, the only brother 
 
 U
 
 2 The Forhinate Lovei's. 
 
 of the bride, was Francis of Angouleme, heir to the 
 throne of France in his own right, heir through his wife 
 to the Duchies of Brittany, Orleans, and Milan. 
 
 To the spectators of this splendid wedding, these 
 two young people represented the future of France ; 
 the present was no less splendidly apparent in the rank 
 of nobles that clustered round King Louis and Oueen 
 Anne. It was a brilliant sight, and none the less 
 interesting because half the people in the church could 
 remember when these magnificent grandees had per- 
 ceived the power of monarchs from a very different point 
 of view. For ninety years previous to the accession of 
 Louis XIL, the House of Orleans had dwelt in dun- 
 geons, in camps of mutiny, in odour of suspicion and 
 disgrace, England and France and Milan had united 
 to their detriment ; yet the elastic, vital race escaped 
 alive. Alive, but not undisciplined by long misfortune. 
 The King himself and the King's father, the bride's 
 father and grandfather, had languished for many years in 
 prison. The bridegroom's grandfather, twice condemned 
 to death, had died at last in his dungeon ; and the son of 
 that man, the father of the bridegroom, was that un- 
 lucky Rene d'Alengon, fed with a fork, like an imprisoned 
 beast, through the iron bars of the infamous cage of 
 Louis XL Yet Alengon was no descendant of that mur- 
 dered Louis of Orleans, from whom so many here were 
 sprung — the King and the Queen, their only child, the 
 heir to the throne, the young bride standing at the altar, 
 and, in her company, Mme. de Coetivy and Mme. de la 
 Tremouille. But during the ninety years of discord 
 which had avenged the death of the murdered Duke, 
 the chivalrous friendship of the House of Alen(jon had 
 counted no cost in the service and defence of Orleans.
 
 hiU^odnction. ' 3 
 
 To-day the debt was acknowledged. Eleven years 
 ago, when the sudden death of Charles VIII. had called 
 the Duke of Orleans to the throne, Louis had cried, with 
 the magnanimity of his race, " The King forgets the 
 injuries of Orleans ! " But the friends of Orleans, the 
 King remembered. Despite the ambition of his wife, he 
 had married his only child to the fatherless son of 
 Angouleme. Despite the ambition of the Countess of 
 Angouleme, he rejected the King of England and the 
 King of Spain (who both aspired to wed her daughter), 
 and to-day the pearl of the House of Orleans was be- 
 stowed upon Alencon. 
 
 In this the King was generous; nor was he only gener- 
 ous, but wise. The marriage of Margaret of Angouleme 
 to the Duke of Alengon was the last of a series of events 
 destined to reconcile to the Crown the great feudal 
 houses. For more than a hundred years the princes of 
 Orleans and Burgundy, of Brittany, Angouleme, and 
 Alengon had filled the length and breadth of France 
 with mutiny and discord. Burgundy was now extinct, 
 or rather, shall we say, transformed into a far more ter- 
 rible shape, into the child who should grow up as the 
 Emperor Charles V. Yet Burgundy was at least no 
 longer a source of internal disquiet. And eleven years 
 ago Orleans had ascended the throne of France ; he had 
 married Brittany, and of late he had given his child to 
 Angouleme. To-day the sister of the future King was 
 married to Alencon. So that these terrible and disas- 
 trous houses, dire occasions of the worst incursions of 
 the English, turbulent allies of the country against the 
 Crown, were henceforth to be no more a cause of peril 
 to the monarchy, nay, on this wedding-day of Angouleme 
 and Alencon, the last of them was caught up, absorbed,
 
 4 The FortiLiiate Lovers. 
 
 transmuted into the Reigning Family, sharing in the 
 final triumph of the House of Orleans. 
 
 But, as in the stories of our childhood, one host was 
 left unreckoned with, one guest was not invited to the 
 festival, one danger remained unconciliated to destroy 
 the state. Among the feudal houses of France none 
 had a more placable or a nobler character than the 
 House of Bourbon. To Pierre de Bourbon-Beaujeu, 
 widowed of Mary of Orleans, Louis XI. had married 
 the eldest and wisest of his children ; and to this 
 daughter, Anne de Bourbon-Beaujeu, the King be- 
 queathed, on his death-bed, the Regency of France. 
 Anne fulfilled his utmost wishes, and this remarkable 
 woman, small, ailing, destitute of beauty or entrancing 
 accomplishment, imprisoned Orleans, defeated Brittany, 
 exiled Angouleme, and secured an honourable reign for 
 her young brother. But the system of securing the 
 adhesion of the feudal princes by means of a royal 
 marriage was a system which ensured their fidelity 
 during one generation at the price of dangerous 
 pretensions in the next. Anne de Bourbon was an 
 honest woman ; yet under her rule the House of 
 Bourbon added wealth to wealth and power to power, 
 becoming preponderate among the other nobles. Had 
 a son been born to the Regent, there is little doubt 
 that on her brother's death a rebellion could have 
 placed upon the throne the heir of the Bourbons, in 
 place of the disgraced and unruly Duke of Orleans. 
 Even as it was, there ensued, as Commines relates, 
 a moment of pause, an instant of uncertainty. But 
 Fortune, which mocks the ambition of princes, had 
 bestowed on the Regent one only child, a deformed and 
 crippled girl incapable of offspring. This daughter,
 
 Int7'odiiction. 5 
 
 a great heiress, was betrothed by her father to Charles 
 d'Alen^on, the bridegroom at whose wedding I invite 
 you to assist. As Suzanne de Bourbon-Beaujeu was 
 the richest woman in France, the cadets of the House 
 of Bourbon witnessed with suspicion this project for 
 sending so much money out of the family ; and when a 
 few months after her engagement to Alen^on, Suzanne 
 was suddenly orphaned of her father, her kinsmen and 
 her mother immediately married her to her cousin, 
 Charles de Montpensier, better known as the Constable 
 de Bourbon. This young man of twenty, tragic-eyed, 
 his long pale face wedged between the thick masses of 
 his black hair — this courageous and sinister young 
 soldier with in his veins the blood of the ambitious 
 Bourbons and of the adventurous Gonzagas — was a 
 person of importance in his day. Look at him well ! 
 To-day at this triumph of Orleans, when Alencon, 
 Angouleme, and Brittany all gather, loyal and rewarded, 
 round the throne, no tie binds him, the richest man in 
 France, either to his present or to his future sovereign. 
 He is that fairy sponsor, neglected, uninvited, who 
 arrives later than the others at the festival, and whose 
 gifts are not the gifts of benediction. 
 
 II. 
 
 1 5 14. 
 
 The Castle of Alencon stands upon the river Sarthe 
 — a great fortress of the Middle Ages (strong enough to 
 stand the siege of England or of Burgundy), with 
 immense round towers guarding the drawbridge. Built 
 of the rough-hewn granite of the country, impregnable
 
 6 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 and sovereign, it dominates the city. It appears a 
 fit abode for such a Duke as Charles of Alen^on : less 
 a noble than a petty sovereign in his own dominions, 
 paying homage to the King of France as his feudal 
 superior, but dispensing life and death among his sub- 
 jects, minting his own money and signing his edicts : 
 ' Charles, par le grace de Dieu,' like any king upon the 
 throne. Yet the Castle of Alengon was rather an 
 impressive than a cheerful dwelling-place. A great 
 wooded park stretched for miles beyond the walls out 
 into the country ; but not the park, nor the nightingales, 
 nor the verses which young Maitre Guillaume de Roville, 
 the excellent Chancellor of the Exchequer, was wont to 
 dedicate to them, could make the Castle of Alengon as 
 delightful to its youthful mistress as the cheerful home, 
 sweet with the love of mother and of brother, gay with 
 all the pleasures and amenities of a learned and sump- 
 tuous court, which she had left upon her marriage. 
 
 Alen^on, on the contrary, was to Margaret's husband 
 the very centre of existence. To him no doubt it 
 appeared a place of metropolitan pleasures, for he had 
 never lived in town, and had spent but little of his time 
 in Courts. His mother had reared him with his two 
 sisters at the pleasant Manor of Mauves, some miles 
 from 7\lengon. To the Duke, therefore, the ducal city 
 naturally seemed a place of wider social resources than 
 it appeared to Margaret, but this was a small virtue in 
 his eyes, for the Duke was a very serious young man, 
 pious, frugal, conscientious, uninspired. It is perhaps 
 natural that a man should be devoid of gaiety, whose 
 father, having run the whole gauntlet of dissipation and 
 rebellion, having rusted in a cage, and flaunted as a 
 prince's favourite, suddenly, at the approach of old age.
 
 Int7'odiiction. 7 
 
 marries a pious wife, allows her to convert him to quiet- 
 ness, and dies of the unused inaction, leaving her to 
 struggle with three little children against a world full of 
 debts and enemies. Luckily for her children, the 
 mother of the little Duke was not only a pious, but a 
 brave and upright woman. She was the daughter of 
 Ferry II. de Vaudemont, and the grand-daughter of 
 Rene, King of Sicily, and therefore the niece of our 
 tragic Margaret of Anjou, wife of Henry VI. of 
 England. The Dowager-Duchess of Alen^on also 
 was christened Margaret ; but in no other respect 
 did she resemble her father's sister, unless it were in 
 that courage and capacity for endurance which is the 
 attribute of all virtuous women, be they heroic, or 
 gentle, or austere. The Duchess Margaret was austere ; 
 in her childhood she had often thought of her sweet 
 ancestral kinswoman Elizabeth of Hungary, and she 
 had desired to copy her ; now w^as the occasion. Like 
 Elizabeth, she was left a stranger, unprotected in a 
 country full of enemies. The Duchess Margaret acted 
 not only with piety but with prudence. On her hus- 
 band's death she proclaimed to the citizens of Alencon 
 that she intended to pay all her husband's debts, to act 
 as her own steward, and administer her own affairs. It 
 is to the honour of the people that they respected and 
 helped this courageous w^oman, who from that day forth 
 lived with her children in the Manor-house at Mauves, 
 frugally and honestly, herself superintending her estates, 
 until by clever management as well as by the most rigid 
 economy, the last debt was paid before her son became 
 of age. 
 
 The occasion for frugality was gone, but the habit 
 still remained. When her son's wife, the younger
 
 8 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 Margaret, came to live in Alencon, the elder Duchess 
 could not dream how dull, how hard, how monotonous 
 that life which was so suited to herself appeared to a 
 gay young lady from the Court. Margaret, the Duke's 
 mother, found her days were full enough. She man- 
 aged her own house ; and probably in all the length 
 and breadth of France no other great lady provided a 
 large household for no more than 9 francs, 12 sols a day. 
 So great was the elder Duchess's satisfaction in this 
 achievement, that she did not stay to inquire how little 
 the endless round of stewed beef, a joint of mutton, and 
 four pigeons provoked a more capricious palate ; there 
 was sufficient and nutritious food. Then there were the 
 estates to manage; for not till 1521 did the elder 
 Duchess remit her stewardship to the Duke, so often 
 absent with the King. Also, beyond and above the 
 satisfaction of her dead husband's creditors, this virtuous 
 lady had contrived to save enough money to provide 
 three Sisterhoods of St Clare with convents in the 
 vicinity of Alencon. To her world-wearied and harassed 
 soul there was no refreshment comparable to that she 
 found in the happy hours that she could spare from her 
 duties at the castle, to weep and pray with these holy 
 women. She had been beautiful, she was of kingly 
 race, she had been educated in the cultured Court of 
 Lorraine ; but she had never loved the world ; to pray, 
 to work, to love, these were the sole demands of her 
 sweet and pious nature. 
 
 This elder lady is, I must confess, infinitely 
 attractive to me ; but she, it is very certain, never 
 wrote the " Heptameron," and her virtues are an 
 interruption here. Judging from the tone of the first 
 novel in her daughter-in-law's collection, it seems
 
 Introdiictioji. 9 
 
 probable that the younger Margaret, with her keen 
 young eyes, saw many a flaw and shame, many a 
 grievous hypocrisy in the priests and pious people with 
 whom her husband's mother was surrounded. She had 
 no love for "them that go often to the monastery 
 church, and carry with them paternosters marked 
 with death's heads, and wear their hoods lower than 
 other women, and think to be esteemed wise, but are in 
 truth most foolish." She rebelled against the Saints of 
 Alen9on. "What, is it Jacques De Silly, madame, that 
 you believe so perfect } Can you see no fault in this 
 virtuous and successful bishop, this zealous reformer of 
 the scandalous Convent of Almaneches, this builder of 
 markets and houses for the poor, restorer of churches 
 and presbyteries, this rigid yet liberal disciplinarian 
 of his See .-' Then let me relate to you, madame, a 
 little story of the profaner loves of the excellent Bishop 
 of Seez ! " Thus we can imagine Margaret, a point of 
 malice in her eye, unfolding the unedifying adventure 
 which opens the " Heptameron." Margaret, with her 
 strong hatred of pious cant, her scathing contempt for 
 the sins of the clergy, must have seen many things to 
 suspect, and much to question in the half-monastic 
 circle which gathered round the Dowager Duchess. 
 Her description of her self in her youth fits ill into this 
 rather stiff and sombre frame. " A lady of so good a 
 family that there could be no better ... a woman of 
 joyous life, and the best company possible, living joy- 
 ously in all sorts of society . . . gay and pious, loving to 
 laugh, young, eii bon point, of an excellent constitution, 
 so amiable to her admirers, that she may not complain 
 of their miscomprehension . . . yet she goes with her 
 head in the air, sure of her honour,"
 
 10 The Fortimate Lovers. 
 
 This light-hearted, good-natured, and worldly young 
 Duchess, whom the readers of this book will learn to 
 know as Parlamente, had none the less her sober side. 
 But that sober side was itself suspect in sober Alen^on. 
 For the Dowager Duchess was a devoted Catholic ; 
 and Margaret, though no Protestant (for Luther was 
 still in his monastery, Calvin still a little child at 
 Noyon, and Lefebvre d'Etaples but just beginning 
 to print his epoch-making Commentaries), was yet 
 none the less held guilty of sympathy with New 
 Ideas. The " Neiv Ideas ! " The phrase is eloquent. 
 Can you not imagine the contempt and distrust which 
 it aroused in that city still almost mediaeval ; in that 
 ancient fortress guarded by moat and drawbridge ; in 
 the breast, perhaps, of that saintly Chatelaine, spending 
 her own life in the austere practice of a traditional piety 
 and the diligent stewardship of her son's inheritance ! 
 
 The younger Margaret was, however, not without com- 
 panions. I remember no phrase in her writings betray- 
 ing any intimate affection or sympathy for her husband's 
 mother ; but it is certain she had a friendly feeling for 
 both her sisters-in-law. One of these ladies had lately 
 married William Palaiologus, Marquis of Monferrat, 
 and had gone to live with him in Italy. The other, 
 Frangoise, at this moment was newly married to the 
 Duke of Vendome. In later days Frangoise d'Alengon 
 should share with Marguerite d'Angouleme the honour 
 of being grandmother to Henry IV. of France, and 
 through the whole tenor of their lives these two women 
 kept their early friendship unimpaired. Margaret had 
 also the dear sympathy and companionship of her 
 former governess, Madame de Chatillon, "a very prudent 
 dame,"asthe"Heptameron"announces,w^idowof Jacques
 
 Introduction. 1 1 
 
 de Chatillon-Coligny. Another generation, and the 
 names of Chatillon and of Coligny should ring like a 
 trumpet and pierce like a sword ; but the nephews 
 of Madame de Chatillon were yet unborn. Another 
 generation, and the sister of the Duke of Alencon 
 should chiefly be remembered as the mother of 
 Conde, his wife as the mother of the great Jeanne 
 d'Albret of Navarre. 
 
 Out of that quiet northern castle the flames of 
 human sacrifices and the disasters of civil battles 
 should depart ; but as yet these things were not. 
 Madame Mere and the Bishop of Seez arranged the 
 reformation of the church, after their fashion, putting 
 glass windows into ruined cathedrals, and founding 
 convents to assist the poor. Upstairs, Madame de 
 Chatillon and Margaret were learning Greek and 
 Latin (" Langues heretifiques et lutheranifiques"), or 
 reading the last new commentary on the Scriptures 
 sent down from Henri Estienne's printing press in 
 Paris ; and they, after their fashion, were planning to 
 reform religion by the establishment of a secular college, 
 the diffusion of polite learning, and the marriage of the 
 clergy. Meanwhile, in front of both alike, the Future, 
 silently cherishing her vial of blood and tears, hovered 
 on tragic wings, unquestioned, disregarded. 
 
 Margaret was so devoted to her studies that as, a few 
 years after this, a friend of hers remarked, " she would 
 run to the other end of the world if there was a new 
 doctor of learning to be found there." But, for a sprightly, 
 robust, and affectionate young creature, at twenty, the 
 study of grammar and theology still leaves the heart 
 unsatisfied. Margaret's marriage was not enough to fill 
 this emptiness : she never showed a tender affection for
 
 1 2 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 her husband, and did not quite appreciate the good 
 qualities of this dull young man, trying so earnestly, and 
 with so little brilliance, to do his best in every relation 
 of life. All that was pathetic and respectable, and even 
 inspiring, in this short-sighted idealist, escaped her 
 brilliant, eager young eyes, intolerant of the narrow 
 and the mediocre. It is, perhaps, fortunate that he was 
 so frequently away fighting with his brother-in-law of 
 Angouleme, — earning praise for his courage at Marignan. 
 In his absence her home at Alengon was more endurable 
 to Margaret. Herbright young presence illuminated the 
 castle ; she would flash in on the excellent young 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer, she would rouse him to 
 cap verses against her, and no doubt she would spur on 
 his Pegasus by half-malicious praises of a young man 
 of twenty, a protege of hers, Clement, the son of the 
 poet Jean Marot, who just about this time began to 
 shed a novel lustre on the respectable provincial Ducal 
 Court. 
 
 All the same the hours passed slowly. Talking with 
 old Madame de Chatillon, learning Greek and Latin, 
 capping verses with young poets, or even singing to the 
 viol those songs of which the slender, faded notes may 
 still be seen preserved in the library at Pau ; all these 
 amusements are a little too much alike. Margaret had 
 not many others, save when she went to Court. Now 
 and then, in her love of the real actual world, she 
 would sally out into the narrow streeted city ; up the 
 granite-faced Rue de Valnoble, where the Court officials 
 lived, and where the nobles of the country side (and 
 among others, the Barons of St Aignan) had their 
 town-houses ; down the Rue du Jeudi, noisy as In- 
 ferno, with swarms of buyers and sellers, all vociferat-
 
 Introduction. 1 3 
 
 ing together on the narrow, muddy pavement, heaped 
 every Thursday morning with yellow stacks of corn, 
 and bales of silk and wool and linen ; through the 
 streets of one-storied houses, where the shopkeepers 
 lived less wealthily, less amply than the bourgeoisie of 
 Paris, and not allowed like those to disport themselves 
 in velvet like people of the highest class ; past the 
 dark and tortuous Jewry, out into the faubourg, where 
 dwelt the poor in small hovels, very low, with cellars 
 kept free from dust and air alike, where all day long 
 the loom rattled, the shuttle flew, and pale men and 
 women worked. These laborious weavers w^ould crowd 
 into the doorway as the Duchess passed, the men 
 handsome in their way, the women narrow-shouldered 
 and undersized, and both alike, on this extreme edge 
 of Normandy, with more of the intent and passionate 
 Breton than of the buxom Norman in their countenances. 
 The condition of these poor people became a living 
 care to Margaret, even as to her saintly mother-in-law ; 
 but actual contact with them was difficult. These 
 streets were no place for a delicate Princess. Pools of 
 blood from the slaughter-houses stagnated the whole 
 week long in the hollows of the worn pavement of the 
 Rue de I'Hospice ; torrents of unmentionable garbage 
 streamed down the gutter of the Rue du Jeudi. And 
 yet in the winter there was no other exercise, when the 
 park, near the Sarthe, became damp and swampy, 
 when the royal roads to Seez and Le Mans and Paris 
 became for months impassable to the light litter of the 
 Duchess. Often Margaret was condemned to stay at 
 home, idly glancing from her window across the pretty, 
 rolling country, softly wooded as the South of Eng- 
 land, with here and there a spire among the trees, here
 
 14 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 and there a nestling farm, and on a distant hill a grey 
 steep-streeted village. 
 
 In this placid view three features alone provoked 
 attention. The first, a great cone-like rock with a 
 ruined fortress on the summit, known as La Butte de 
 Chaumont ; the second, the lake and woods of Rablais ; 
 the third, the Castle of Lonray. It was the third which 
 became remarkable to our heroine. The Castle of 
 Lonray was still in those days a strong old fortress, 
 with huge towers standing, strong enough to defend 
 the city of Alencon, while a great part of the dwelling- 
 house had fallen into ruins. Three or four years later, 
 the castle was rebuilt in the charming early style of the 
 sixteenth century, Italianate, but not yet conventional, 
 with arcades of columns along the cheerful front. But 
 when first Margaret dwelt in Alengon, the castle was 
 still a ruined mediaeval fortress ; and behind those 
 grim and ancient towers dwelt a beautiful woman (the 
 more beautiful for her gloomy setting), a distant cousin 
 of the Duke of Alengon's, Madame Aimee Motier de 
 la Fayette, known all about Alencon as La Dame de 
 Lonray. 
 
 Madame de Lonray was a young widow, of a 
 romantic, tender, and rather timid disposition, and fond 
 of pleasure, fond of admiration, beautiful, and much 
 about the Court ; yet, notwithstanding the stories of 
 Brantome and the dangerous devotion of the Count of 
 Angouleme, in the main a virtuous woman. She 
 became a great and constant friend of Margaret's — a 
 friend for life, associated with all her joys and sorrows. 
 A little later she married Jacques de Silly, Bailli de 
 Caen ; and as la baillivc de Caen she flits across the 
 pages of Margaret's letters and the pages of Brantome.
 
 Introduction. 1 5 
 
 But when Margaret first dwelt in Alencon, she was still 
 in her weeds for the Bastard of Navarre, still a young 
 widow, and only known by her title of La Dame de 
 Lonray. M, Franck, with admirable acumen, has per- 
 ceived the value of this fact, and bids us behold in the 
 widow of Lonray (or Longray), Longarine, the charm- 
 ing young widow of the " Heptameron" widowed again, 
 when Margaret wrote her novels. So clear is the 
 evidence that I withdraw my former preference for 
 Philiberte de Savoie, and agree with my superior critic 
 in bidding the reader seek in the Baillive de Caen the 
 original of Longarine. 
 
 Suddenly the quiet life of these ladies in the country 
 was interrupted by an event of immense importance. 
 In the autumn of the year 151 5 King Louis died. 
 Francis of Angouleme, the brother of the young 
 Duchess, ascended the throne as Francis L ; and for 
 many years his sister forewent her life of quiet pro- 
 vincial dignity to be the brilliant Egeria of the gayest 
 Court in Europe. 
 
 III. 
 
 1522. 
 
 Six years of continual festivity diverted that splendid 
 Court, exhausted the treasury, and all but ruined the 
 country. The Field of the Cloth of Gold ended in 
 rumours of famine and of warfare. No need to tell the 
 reader here of the old rivalry of Burgundy and Orleans, 
 fatally revived in Charles V. and Francis I., or of the 
 causes that led to war between them ; no need to 
 depict the growing power, and the growing discontent of 
 the Constable de Bourbon, nor the rashness of Francis
 
 1 6 The Fortiuiate Lovers. 
 
 in taking from him the generalship of the army 
 to bestow it on Alengon. Suffice it to say that, 
 in the year 1523, many tumid evils gathered to a 
 head at once, and the rebellion of Bourbon, the war 
 with the Emperor Charles, and the outbreak of the 
 French Reformation burst together on the startled 
 country. 
 
 The castle of Alengon was changed and desolate. 
 Last year the Dowager Duchess had retired into her 
 convent of the Sisters of St Clare ; and her delicate 
 frame, worn with prayer and fasting, with the energies 
 and the austerities of a saintly life, succumbed in a few 
 months to the rule that she had chosen. In that same 
 year of 1521 she died, amid the lamentations of her 
 people. That winter there was a great famine, there 
 was no bread to be bought in Normandy. Many 
 sickened, many died. The tomb of the dead Duchess 
 was surrounded by kneeling and weeping supplicants, 
 calling upon her to listen from her place in Heaven. 
 She heard, as they believed. Miracles were worked at 
 her tomb ; the stone figure with the folded hands and 
 quiet lids was not less quick to pity than the living 
 saint had been ; and the legend of Saint Margaret grew 
 and prospered in the country side. 
 
 This contagion of pathos, of religion, affected the 
 younger Duchess. She also was unhappy. For the 
 first time in her life she was confronted with the tragedy 
 of existence. War was declared; and Francis had given 
 the Constableship of the army to Alengon, and Mar- 
 garet distrusted the shallow mediocrity of her husband. 
 If he should fail ! If the King should be defeated ! 
 The struggle was arduous — no mere invasion of a 
 weaker country as in 151 5, but battle face to face with
 
 IjiU'odiiction. 1 7 
 
 the great forces of Europe, Avith the Emperor, with 
 revolted France, perhaps with England. 
 
 In this hour of apprehension Margaret yearned for 
 celestial consolations. She wrote in the trouble of her 
 soul to Guillaume Brigonnet, Count of Montbrun, the 
 far-famed Bishop of Meaux, son of the great statesman 
 who befriended Savonarola. His answer brought her 
 sympathy, and, as she fancied, help and guidance. 
 When, in the winter of 1522, the King, Alencon, and 
 Silly, husband of Longarine, and Vendome, husband 
 of Frangoise, with almost every man at Court, down 
 to the little poet Clement Marot, had all departed 
 south with the army, Margaret left her desolate castle 
 of Alengon, and removed to Meaux, in order to be 
 near her kind religious friend. In that mystical and 
 pious circle we must now imagine Parlainente and 
 Longarine discussing the Scriptures with the priests 
 and scholars of the little episcopal city, reading St Paul 
 where they used to read Le Roman de la Rose or Les 
 Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles, and forgetting the language 
 of the Court for the strange metaphorical jargon pre- 
 served in the letters of Brigonnet to the Duchess of 
 Alencon. 
 
 These two ladies were not alone in their palace. 
 Madame de Vendome (as I think from a passage in 
 Margaret's correspondence), with several personages 
 from the Court of Alengon, attended their migration. 
 Among these we shall be chiefly interested in a charm- 
 ing young ecclesiastic, at that time barely twenty years 
 of age. He was the natural son of Chancellor Duprat, 
 and in Margaret's letters we often find him mentioned 
 as Monsieur de Juilly. In 1522 he was, however, still 
 unpreferred to this abbacy, and as plain Nicolas Dangu 
 
 B
 
 1 8 The Forttmate Lovers. 
 
 he walked the streets of Meaux, and cultivated the 
 friendship of the Bishop. Despite the difference of age, 
 these two were companions by spirit and by nature ; 
 for Briconnet himself was not more mystical than 
 Dangu, " ever dreaming " (as Simontattlt declared), 
 " the republic of Plato." Nicholas Dangu was a person 
 of a singular and delicate character, instinct with devo- 
 tion, constancy, and a melancholy goodness. Even 
 at Court he never spoke ill of women, and would 
 rather have died than turn them into the occasion of 
 a foolish jest. Indeed, his affectionate and Platonic 
 friendship for the lively and enthusiastic young Duchess 
 of Alengon dignified all womanhood in his eyes. There 
 is in the *' Heptameron " no other character so engaging 
 and so loveable as this young man whom the incompar- 
 able M. Franck has divined to be the original oi Dagoii- 
 cin, the honest and devoted servitor of Parlamente. 
 
 But at Meaux, in 1522, we must not observe only 
 Dagoiicin and Parlamente and Longarine. A more 
 important character was mistress of the Court. This 
 was the mother of Margaret and of the King, Louise of 
 Savoy, Countess of Angouleme, Regent of the kingdom 
 in the absence of Francis. " Madame " was more feared 
 than any monarch. She was a commanding woman, a 
 woman of ambition and ability, a woman also capable 
 of the most passionate devotion to the few she loved : 
 yet, in the general opinion, a terrible, rather than a 
 loveable woman. " Anzi una Donna terribilissima ! " 
 declared De Lussy four or five years later to Eleanor of 
 Austria, " and one who can treat a daughter-in-law worse 
 than any kitchen wench." She was a worthy daughter 
 of that passionate Philip of Savoy, who slew with his 
 own hand one of his father's counsellors, and very nearly
 
 Introduction. 1 9 
 
 drowned another. Vehement, quarrelsome, ambitious, 
 this daughter of Savoy and Bourbon was equal to her 
 race. But Margaret was one of the two persons Hving 
 to whom Madame was tender and devoted ; and 
 Margaret beheld her mother in an ideal light. 
 
 Madame had come to Meaux in order to be with her 
 daughter ; and once arrived, this woman, a few years 
 later so distinguished as a persecutor of heretics, found 
 herself involved in the nebulous piety of the place. 
 Margaret had conceived the idea of bringing over the 
 Royal Family to the New Ideas : her sister-in-law was 
 her first convert (was it Queen Claude or Madame de 
 V.endome .''), She quaintly hoped that her second con- 
 vert was her mother. " Madame has begun to read in 
 the Holy Scriptures!" she writes exultingly. "The King 
 and Madame," she writes again, " are quite decided to let 
 it be made known that the truth of God is no heresy." 
 Lefebvre sent the illustrious convert a copy of the 
 Epistles of St Paul, and all the semi-Lutheran mystics 
 of Meaux rejoiced over the serious devotion of Louise. 
 But Madame, though tolerant of an entertaining variant 
 on orthodox opinion, was the last woman alive to sanc- 
 tion Protestantism as an agent, as a factor. As soon as 
 the Lutherans became an organised and dogmatic oppo- 
 sition to the Papal authority, Madame withdrew her 
 clement interest in their beliefs, and announced herself 
 their most determined enemy. She feared that the man 
 who questioned the Divine Right of Popes might next 
 begin to argue and protest against the Right of Kings. 
 But Margaret, writing the "Heptameron" long after that 
 cherished mother's death, appears to have remembered 
 her under this dearest and most sympathetic aspect ; 
 to have remembered her only as the pious and kindly
 
 20 The Fo7^tunate Lovers. 
 
 evangelical of Meaux. I suppose there is no doubt that 
 Danie Oysile, the virtuous widow of the " Heptameron," is 
 Margaret's portrait of her mother. Oysile, Loyise, the 
 names are identical, and M.M.Franck.Le Roux de Lincy, 
 Genin, and La Croix are all of this opinion. And yet 
 there is something so grimly humorous in this rendering 
 of the passionate, arrogant, vindictive Louisa of Savoy, 
 that I have wondered whether in this portrait Margaret 
 did not rather mean to draw her virtuous governess, 
 Madame de Chatillon, or even, perhaps, to set a picture 
 of herself in her maturer years in contrast to Parlaniejite, 
 that vivacious likeness of her youth. Still, given the 
 idealizing temper of Margaret, and the weight of the 
 authority against me, I own it to be quite probable that 
 in the benignant and religious Oysile, we should behold 
 her memory of {/a donna tevj'ibilissiind) her mother, 
 although in my own mind Oysile appears a fairly accu- 
 rate representation of the Margaret of 1540. 
 
 We may imagine that, had she lived to know Madame 
 Oysile, Madame Louise would have shared our views as 
 to the value of the likeness to herself. The phase of 
 pietism and scriptural allusion was very short with her. 
 " Thank God," she wrote in her diary for December 
 1522, "Thank God, my son and I began to recognise 
 the hypocrites, white, black, grey, smoke-coloured, and 
 of every hue from which God in His infinite clemency 
 has seen fit to preserve us.'' It is in these terms that 
 Madame alludes to her mystical neighbours of Meaux, 
 among whom, in coming years, she was to scatter death 
 and exile, captivity and punishment, with no parsi- 
 monious hand.
 
 Introduction. 2 1 
 
 IV. 
 
 1524-30. 
 
 The quiet winter spent at Meaux was succeeded by 
 the most eventful years of Margaret's life. Francis, 
 having driven back the invaders of Provence, and 
 crushed the rebellion of the nobles who assisted Bour- 
 bon, determined on invading Italy, and insisting on his 
 claim to Milan. Francis was himself the great-grand- 
 son, as his dying wife was the great-granddaughter, of 
 Valentine of Milan ; and their double claim to the 
 Duchy had been recognised by the Emperor in the 
 Investiture of Milan, bestowed on the father-in-law of 
 Francis in 1509. To recapture Milan would be a fine 
 revenge on the Emperor for the armies he had brought 
 to the aid of Bourbon. But it was not the Emperor 
 who suffered. On the 24th of February 1525 Francis 
 himself was taken captive at Pavia; Montmorency, 
 Chabot, the young King of Navarre, and many others 
 shared his dismal lot, while many more were slain, 
 among them Bonnivet, in whom M. Franck beholds 
 the original of Saffredent, and Francois de Silly, the 
 second husband of La Dame De Lonray. The 
 capture of the King was attributed by some to the 
 cowardice, by others to the incapacity of the Duke of 
 Alen^on, who had failed to bring the vanguard to the 
 relief of the King. Alengon in this was more unfortun- 
 ate than blameworthy ; impeded by the enemy, he 
 could not advance in time. Nevertheless he became 
 the scapegoat of the misery and wounded pride of 
 France, which beheld in him not only the cause of the 
 disaster, but the only conspicuous noble of the kingdom
 
 2 2 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 neither dead, nor wounded, nor in prison. The people 
 sang songs to his dishonour in all the fields and alleys, 
 and Rabelais wrote his bitter phrase concerning " les 
 fiiyards de Pavie." By the time the retreating troops 
 arrived at Lyons, the unhappy Duke was ill with 
 despair and remorse. At first, Margaret would not 
 see him. But when she learned how seriously the poor, 
 defeated general took his disgrace to heart, how he 
 was actually dying of shame and sorrow, his wife almost 
 forgave him the captivity of her brother. It was not 
 for long that she had to exert her magnanimity. On 
 the nth of April, the Duke was dead; Margaret was 
 now a childless widow, and the line of St Louis was 
 extinct in the Duchy of Alengon. 
 
 In the later summer Margaret went to Spain to 
 negotiate the release of her brother ; and here we find 
 the lively Pai'laniente (the wittiest of Court ladies, the 
 dreamiest of mystics) as the most practical and per- 
 severing of politicians. Margaret went to Spain to 
 release her brother, but also to instruct him in the latest 
 details of a great Guelf League which the audacious 
 mind of Wolsey projected against the Emperor ; for 
 Charles had grievously offended his allies of England 
 by marrying a princess of Portugal while he was 
 betrothed to the daughter of Henry VIII. Wolsey 
 found willing allies in Italy, since all the chief Italian 
 States were dismayed at the supremacy given to the 
 Emperor by the victory of Pavia. He found it an easy 
 task to detach the Pope from the Emperor, and easier 
 still to secure the delighted adhesion of defeated 
 France. Italy, France, and England were to be joined 
 by the little kingdom of Navarre, whose youthful 
 sovereign the allies then meant to marry to Madame
 
 Introduction. 2^ 
 
 Renee, the orphan daughter of King Louis XII., a girl 
 of fifteen years of age. It was expected that Scotland 
 and perhaps Flanders would give in their adherence to 
 the cause. With the materials for so immense a resist- 
 ance to the Emperor, it was necessary that Francis 
 should be warned against granting too abject conditions 
 for his release. " The King's sister," writes Orio in 
 London to the Doge, "is to go to Spain. D'Aubigny, 
 the brother-in-law of the Chancellor of Alencon, tells 
 me that Madame is sending the Duchess Margaret to 
 Spain to tell the Most Christian King not to make 
 terms with the Emperor, as the King of England will 
 aid his release, and Madame intends sending troops 
 into Italy and an ambassador to Venice." ^ 
 
 The failure of the Guelf League, through the jealousies 
 and exactions of Venice and the Pope, may be read 
 in the Calendars of Rawdon Brown, the Diplomatic 
 Negotiations of Desjardins, and our English State 
 papers for the reign of Henry VIII. The seven MSS. 
 volumes of Du Bellay's Letters and Memoranda, 
 preserved in the National Library at Paris, throw a 
 fuller light on the subject, and help us to understand 
 the gradual transmutation of that which began as a 
 Guelf and Papal League, into a vast Latitudinarian 
 Confederation of Turkey, Hungary, Saxony, Flanders, 
 Venice, England, Switzerland, and France against the 
 Emperor. Nothing shows more clearly how the real 
 essence of the Guelf spirit was not attachment to the 
 Pope, but devotion to the cause of national independence 
 and hostility to the foreign Emperor. Yet for a while 
 Wolsey, Du Bellay, and the sanguine Margaret believed, 
 
 ^ /^aivdofi Brown, ^' Venetian Calendars," vol. iii., p. iiii. London, 
 loth September 1525.
 
 24 The Foriimatc Lovers. 
 
 as later on Italian Liberals believed of Pio Nono, that 
 the Pope would continue to place himself at the head 
 of the national movement, even after the extinction 
 of its exclusively religious phase. How they were 
 deceived in this hope, and how France and England 
 were at last estranged by the unfortunate friendship of 
 the King of Scotland, may be studied in the volumes 
 mentioned above, as also in the first volume of the 
 Archives of Simancas. The subject is too vast for 
 the limits of so slight a page as this ; yet it was 
 necessary to mention it, since it is for her influence in 
 this most subtle and most complex of all the move- 
 ments of the complex and subtle sixteenth century, 
 that Margaret of Angouleme will continue to be 
 remembered as a person of historic moment. 
 
 After a year and a month of captivity. King Francis 
 was released (though not directly by his sister's efforts, 
 nor yet by the action of the Italian League), and in his 
 stead his two elder sons were sent as hostages into 
 Spain. This was not the only fetter that bound 
 Francis to the hated country of his captivity. It was 
 in vain that he arranged with Henry VIII. to marry the 
 little Princess Mary ; he had not been permitted to 
 quit his dungeon until his hand was given to the 
 Emperor's sisters. Nor was this the only marriage 
 which contravened the original plan of the League. I 
 have said that it had been decided to wed Renee of 
 France to Henry of Navarre. The intended bride- 
 groom was an impetuous, brave, ambitious youth, at 
 that time surrounded by an adventitious romance, on 
 account of his spirited escape from his dungeon in the 
 fortress at Pavia. As late as the second of July 1526, 
 we hear from Suardino at Granada that the marriage
 
 httroduction. 2 5 
 
 of Henri d'Albret to Renee is spoken of as a settled 
 engagement. But Henri d'Albret, practical, intelligent, 
 rather sensual, and sometimes even brutal, had nothing 
 in common with the orphan of sixteen. He found more 
 companionship in the society of an experienced woman 
 of the world, older than himself, able to push his interests, 
 witty and distinguished if without the charm of youth, 
 and sharing his convictions in politics and religion. In 
 July, as I have said, we still hear of Henri's marriage 
 with Renee, On the 24th of January 1527, he espoused 
 the King's sister and our heroine, Margaret of Angouleme, 
 the widowed Duchess of Alengon. 
 
 Margaret was eleven years older than her husband, 
 and it was not long before occasional discords marred 
 the union of this devoted woman with the volatile 
 and sensual husband of her choice. Most of these 
 dissensions may be traced to the fact that Margaret 
 would never aUow her husband to consult his own 
 interests before the interests of Francis I. Descurra,^ 
 the Spanish Ambassador, draws a lively picture of the 
 behaviour of Henri upon such occasions — anger, 
 sarcasm, bitter reproaches, rained on the head of the 
 offending wife, who would bend and weep, and on the 
 next occasion offer up to her idolized brother the State 
 secrets of Navarre. " Bonne mais trop faible princesse!" 
 ejaculates Florimond de Remond ; and, indeed, the 
 fact that she was morally too good for him, could only 
 add a point to her husband's just resentment of her 
 weakness. Inconstant, violent, brutally facetious as he 
 was, Henri d'Albret was a good, a public-spirited, and 
 an ambitious monarch ; and the sisterly devotion of 
 
 ^ Le Baron tie Ruble ; Le mariage de Jeanne d'Albret ; and Arch. 
 Nat., Paris, K. 1492, 14.
 
 26 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 his elderly wife ruined his dearest plans and baulked 
 his bravest enterprise. He was an affectionate father, 
 and Margaret's brother took his child away from him. 
 He was, with all his faults, not devoid of a real tender- 
 ness and generosity, and those who love the memory of 
 Francoise de Rohan will love him a little for his 
 salvation of her. The man was a kindly and natural 
 specimen of the average sensual man, and as such his 
 wife has left a not unsympathetic picture of him in the 
 "Heptameron." It is again M. Franck who has set right 
 the error which beheld in the husband of Parlamente the 
 mediocre Duke of Alengon. No, it is clear that Henri 
 of Navarre is the original of that swaggering Hircan, 
 with his rough and rustic gallantry, his quick wit, his 
 ready jeers at the bonds of marriage. Yet Hircan is 
 represented as entertaining a certain tolerant and 
 cynical veneration for his wife. This is the man! Henri 
 — or as his subjects called him, Hanric — is a name identi- 
 cal with Hircan. And if the anagram can force us to 
 accept the kindly Oysile for the terrible Loyise, how 
 much more convincing is it in the case of the facetious 
 and material Henri of Navarre ! 
 
 To this man was Margaret now married, and to his 
 interests in some degree she must conform. For three 
 years after their wedding the King and Queen of 
 Navarre dwelt in France, and Margaret gave all her 
 energies to the conduct of the Liberal League. But in 
 1530 Henri declined to remain any longer an exile from 
 his tiny kingdom. He had waited long enough, hoping 
 that his brother-in-law would extort from Spain the 
 restitution of the Spanish Navarrese. But Francis did 
 nothing ; and at length, declining any longer to dance
 
 Introduction. 2 7 
 
 attendance in a foreign Court, Henri carried his brilliant 
 wife to rule a little Court of her own in French 
 Navarre. 
 
 IV. 
 
 1530-40. 
 
 Margaret had been to Pau once before, immediately 
 after her marriage. She had found an ancient fortress- 
 castle dominating a picturesque and still half-savage 
 region. " I have been here five days," she wrote in 
 October 1527, " and as yet I scarce begin to understand 
 the language." It was a sharp foreign mountain country 
 that should become her home — a desolate southern 
 kingdom, with tracts of arid sand under the cypresses, 
 with orchards of grey olives and forests of cork-oak, 
 with white serrated Pyrenean ridges pale against the 
 horizon : ridges full of robbers then, and full of bears 
 and wolves, peopled by poor and swarthy peasants 
 ignorant of the arts of France. 
 
 Such a place is to the modern mind as attractive as 
 the glades of Fontainebleau, but it was opposed to the 
 civilized ideal of the Renaissance ; it had little of 
 that " sweet civility and gracious worldliness " which 
 Brantome wTote to praise. Margaret took care to have 
 it changed before she made the place her residence. 
 At Nerac in the north, and in the south at Pau, the 
 Italian architects were busy. 
 
 " Qui n'a vist Castel de Pau 
 Jamey ne vist a rey de tau' ! '' 
 
 cried the enchanted peasants of the south, as terrace 
 on terrace arose below the castle, forming, perhaps, the 
 loveliest gardens of those days ; as round the enlarged
 
 28 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 and airy windows of the altered palace fanciful 
 arabesques were wrought by deft Italian fingers, and 
 wide halls succeeded to the narrow mediaeval chambers. 
 Thus it was to a cheerful and modern home — a royal 
 house, and eminently splendid — that Margaret and her 
 husband returned in 1530. They had left their child 
 behind them at Alengon, in the kind custody of Madame 
 de Lonray. Francis, ever suspicious of his brother-in- 
 law, did not desire that his niece should live at home 
 upon the Spanish border. The King of France hoped 
 to keep Navarre as a friendly neutral between himself 
 and the Pyrenees ; yet, since he did nothing to content 
 the ambition of Henri d'Albret, he continually dreaded a 
 reconciliation between Navarre and Spain. A marriage 
 between Jeanne d'Albret and a Spanish prince was, 
 during the twenty years of her maidenhood, the secret 
 dream of her father, the secret dread of France. In 
 1530 the little girl was only two years old. Yet she 
 remained apart from her parents in Alengon, which 
 Duchy, lapsing to the crown on the death of the Duke, 
 had been generously granted to Margaret by her 
 brother for so long as she should live. And sometimes 
 in the castle there, and sometimes in the sunny manor- 
 house of Lonray, the little Princess of Navarre prospered 
 amid the lush woods and biting winds of Normandy, 
 and grew a beautiful and rosy child. 
 
 Meanwhile Margaret, deprived of her offspring, filled 
 her Court with young creatures, and loved to make 
 them happy. In France she had cared for her mother- 
 less nephews and nieces ; in Navarre she took to her 
 loving heart the young orphan sister of her husband, 
 and the three orphan children of her cousin the Vicomte 
 de Rohan, killed at Pavia. There was a girl Jacqueline,
 
 In trodtidion. 2 9 
 
 and two boys Rene and Claude. With the eldest of 
 the sons of Rohan, and with the girlish sister of Henri 
 d'Albret, we are not unconcerned ; for in them I believe 
 we behold the originals of the Sajfredent and the Noiner- 
 fide, whose madcap and frolic youth enlivens the " Hepta- 
 meron." It is true that I am quite unsupported in this 
 conclusion, which I offer to the reader merely as the 
 unauthorised suggestion of an amateur. In Novicj-fide 
 M. La Croix detects the features of Madame de 
 Chateaubriand, the beautiful mistress of Francis before 
 his captivity in Spain, But Frangoise de Chateaubriand 
 (besides the fact that hers was no pleasant memory 
 with which to regale an unkind and fickle lover) was 
 older than Margaret herself; whereas Noi7ierfide is a 
 harum-scarum girl, "the youngest — shall I say the 
 maddest .-' — of us all," as Parlamente observes. As to 
 identity, M. le Roux de Lincy offers no suggestion, and 
 M. Montaiglon is a sharer in his silence. M. Franck, 
 faithful to his theory of anagrams, discovers in Nojucr- 
 jide the word Fiinarcon, which is the name of a fief 
 belonging to Madame de Montpezat, I must confess 
 this strikes me as riding the willing horse to death. 
 Nomerfide is not the anagram of Fimarcon, for two 
 letters in the first and two in the second word remain 
 non-interchanged. Moreover, this is carrying to a dan- 
 gerous length the derivation of names from fiefs. If we 
 accept the owner of Fimarcon for the original of Noiiier- 
 fide, why should w^e not accept the owner of the fief of 
 Dangu for the original of Dagoucin } Now, Mont- 
 morency, the severe, the bigot, was the owner of the 
 fief of Dangu, a being as unlike the gentle Dagoucin, 
 as the mild Abbe of Juilly is his living likeness. Those 
 personages in the " Hcptameron " of whose identity we
 
 30 The Fortu7iate Love7's. 
 
 are the most convinced derive their pseudonyms from 
 their Christian names, hke Louise, Hanric, and Nicolas 
 Dangu ; from their quahties, Hke Parlamente, the 
 talkative Liberal, or Ennasitkte, the maid of honour 
 (Anne-a-suite), fully as often as from their territorial 
 possessions as in the case of Madame de Lonray. 
 An imperfect anagram with the name of a fief belong- 
 ing to the wife of Montpezat, does not strike me 
 as sufficient evidence of her identity with Nomerfide, 
 And yet I have no clever explanation of the name to 
 offer, for I must confess my ignorance as to the names 
 of many of the fiefs in the possession of Isabeau 
 d'Albret — " ceste fine mouche " — and my private hypo- 
 thesis is that this strange name is probably an allusion 
 to the fickleness, recklessness, and delightful folly of 
 this madcap girl, whose "petit ris follastre" still rings 
 through Marot's clear crystalline verses. " No me fide 
 = non 111 y fie ^' is probably some playful thrust in the 
 half-French half- Spanish language of her home at the 
 charming changeable creature who seemed to justify the 
 line of Margaret's brother : — 
 
 " Souvent femme varie, 
 Bien fol qui s'y fie." 
 
 But let us leave the name of Nomerfide ; the char- 
 acter remains. And who is more like Isabeau than 
 this gay fantastic Novierfide ? An airy little tuft of 
 thistle down, she drifts across the pages of the " Hepta- 
 meron," as Isabeau across the letters of Margaret and 
 the poems of Clement Marot. Light-hearted, feather- 
 headed, impertinent, she laughs at each and all ; her 
 stories all are "court et joyeulx;" and she herself a 
 creature of madcap banter. The person of all the
 
 Introduction. 3 1 
 
 company with whom we find her most at home, is not 
 Saffredent (her lover, or as M. Franck believes, her 
 husband), but, as M. Franck observes, it is obviously 
 Hircan, whom she pleasantly rallies and mocks with 
 infantile familiarity, oblivious of his superior rank. 
 Indeed, it is plain that Novicrfide and Saffredent are 
 themselves personages of consequence, superior, for 
 example, to Eiuiasiiitte or Siniontaidt. Now Hircan was 
 the elder brother of Isabeau d' Albret. And this, reader, 
 is the end of my argument. Choose which you will, the 
 middle-aged and faded Court beauty of M. Lacroix, or 
 the respectable official's wife of M. Franck. In my 
 fancy, none the less, the laughing Nonierfide assumes 
 the charming girlish form, the free madcap manners, 
 the large eyes and white throat of the frolic Isabeau 
 d'Albret. 
 
 I shall take less time to discuss the original of Saffre- 
 dent, a merry young gentleman with hair beginning to 
 grizzle, notwithstanding his green years. None of his 
 stories are older than 1529, at which date, if you 
 remember, the young Rohans came to live with Margaret 
 in Navarre. M, Franck, convinced that Saffredent is 
 the husband of Nomerfide, has fastened on M. de 
 Montpezat the character of this "jeune gentilhomme 
 charge de divertir la compagnie;" while Le Roux de 
 Lincy gives the original to Bonnivet, dead nearly twenty 
 years before the "Heptamcron" was written. Neither of 
 these gentlemen suggest any origin for the name, and 
 though there is, as always, much plausibility in the 
 suggestion of M. Franck — for Montpezat was a merry 
 middle-aged gentleman, a constant companion of 
 Margaret's, and an admirer of ladies (do we not hear 
 of him at the Field of the Cloth of Gold as the sweet-
 
 o 
 
 2 The ForHiiiate Lovers. 
 
 heart of Anne Brown, the handsomest woman in Eng- 
 land or in France ?) — still Montpezat appears to me a 
 dozen years, at least, too old for Saffredent. As to 
 the name I will venture to remark that Saffredent is 
 obviously Safre-dent, greedy-tooth or sweet-tooth, as 
 we say in English. What more natural than that 
 Margaret should disguise by some such nickname the 
 boy she had brought up as her own son ? It is also note- 
 worthy that in obselete and popular French, the word 
 Saf ranter denotes (Heaven knows why!) a ruined man, 
 a bankrupt, or a broken merchant. Now the husband 
 of Isabeau d'Albrct was that young Vicomte de Rohan, 
 ruined by his own extravagance and the treachery of 
 his servants, who lived to become the poorest gentle- 
 man in France, whom Margaret barely rescued from 
 absolute bankruptcy, and whose debts, whose gaiety, 
 and whose disasters furnished the gossip of many a 
 bygone year. 
 
 Enough of Saffredent and Nomerfide — bright, viva- 
 cious, ephemeral phantasms ! To me, reader, there is 
 a tinge of melancholy in their gaiety. For these im- 
 poverished and careless creatures lived to grow old like 
 any others — lived to become the grandparents of Fran- 
 goise de Rohan, the nobler, more unhappy, and more 
 tender Julie of sixteenth century reality. 
 
 At the Court of Pau, while Parlainente and Hircan^ 
 Nomerfide and Saffredent, Dagoucin and Longarine, 
 roam the gardened terraces, a young lady of five or six 
 and twenty keeps close to the others, making sweet 
 eyes at Saffredent. She is sentimental, and waxes 
 eloquent upon the misery of unrequited love, but with 
 all her sentiment her tongue is freer than that of any 
 other in the company, and we who have chosen four of
 
 Introduction. 2iZ 
 
 Nomerfide's narrations are compelled to choose but one 
 of Ennasiiitte's. She thinks herself beloved by Saffre- 
 dent, though, as we know, all his vows are really for 
 another of the company; for he, like Dagoucin and 
 Svnoiitault, pays court to Parlameiite. And yet Emia- 
 siiitte is married, nay, she is a mother; and what is 
 more, and very natural, she is the mother of Brantome 
 —"Ma mere," as he informs us, "ma mere, qui estoit a 
 la Reine de Navarre et qui en s^avoit quelques secrets 
 de ses Nouvelles, et qii elle en estoit tmc des dcvisantesr 
 M. Le Roux de Lincy was the first to perceive the 
 identity of this character with Anne de Vivonne, Anne- 
 a-suicte, as the punning anagram proclaims her, the wife 
 of Francois de Bourdeilles. This worthy editor has been 
 followed in this respect by all others of repute ; and the 
 question of the original of Ennasiiitte is one that in all 
 probability will not be raised again. 
 
 Two other characters complete the company : 
 
 Gcbuvon, in whom M. Franck has discovered a certain 
 
 M. de Burye, an ancient friend of Margaret's, suspected 
 
 of Protestantism, as his cousin Brantome assures us. 
 
 Gcburon is an old gentleman, whose frequent " vous 
 
 me faictes souvenir " refers to a more ancient and a 
 
 wider past than his young companions can recall. He 
 
 has invaded Italy with Charles, with Louis, and with 
 
 Francis ; he has known the life of courts and camps 
 
 for more than fifty years, and now with a smile at his 
 
 own reputation, he exhorts his companions to virtue. 
 
 One of those who least believe in his persuasions is 
 
 Simontaidt, once the devoted servitor of Parlamente ; 
 
 now growing old, not, however, less gallant or less 
 
 sceptical for that. " Ouand vous parlez de la conscience, 
 
 vous me faictes rire ! " he cries. He also has fought
 
 34 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 in Italy, and he has witnessed the Cloth of Gold. 
 Less in rank than the others, neat, merry, quick at 
 half-sentimental badinage, I had imagined this clever 
 fellow, " a little sore at his jester's reputation," to be 
 no less a personage than Margaret's valet de chambre, 
 Clement Marot. Leroux had oddly fancied him as 
 Henry of Navarre ; Franck defines him as Frangois 
 de Bourdeilles, Seigneur de Montauris, a man whom 
 Brantome, his son, described as " homme scabreux, 
 haut a main," familiar with popes, and kings, and 
 nobles. Siuwntmilt may be perchance the husband of 
 Eiinasiiittc ; although, like M. de Montaiglon, I think 
 it strange that Brantome ' ce vantard ' should have 
 kept this piece of knowledge to himself, and this figure 
 does not appear to me to have received its final 
 interpretation. We will, however, admit him here as 
 Francois de Bourdeilles. And now, ancient and pious 
 widow, pretty and worldly one, Oysile and Parlamente, 
 facetious Hircan, madcap Novierfide, gay Saffredent, and 
 Dagoncin the unworldly Platonist, and Gebiiron the 
 feeble old soldier, Siinontatilt with his jests and amused 
 inferiority, and Rabelaisian Eimasiiitte, they all have 
 passed before us. 
 
 VI. 
 
 1 540-1 544. 
 
 I am wrong, gentle reader, if I have allowed you 
 for a moment to imagine that the Queen of Navarre 
 spent her life at Pau and Nerac, ruling her little 
 kingdom, and telling stories among her intimate com- 
 panions. These sojourns in her own palace were her 
 rarest holidays, for Margaret was too good a sister to
 
 Introduction. 35 
 
 be a perfect wife. In her mind the requirements of 
 King Francis were imperative, and she spent her Hfe 
 inspecting his frontiers and raising his troops in time 
 of war, or in negotiating the Enghsh alHance for him 
 in time of peace. In our collections of foreign State 
 Papers her name occurs, at least, as often as the King's ; 
 and the Englishmen, Paget and Wallup, and the 
 Venetian Matteo Dandolo, declare her service in the 
 Liberal cause. " She is ever a member of the King's 
 Secret Council," wrote the last, " and therefore she 
 is obliged to follow the King of France wherever he 
 goes, though narrow and inconvenient be her lodgings." 
 " She was busy with great occupations," affirmed 
 Brantome, " even when she seemed to have retired." 
 
 Nor were all the holidays of Margaret passed in 
 the leisure of her husband's Court. Sometimes when 
 she could snatch a moment of freedom, she dedicated 
 it to Nouierfide and Saffredent, bankrupt upon their 
 great estate in Brittany ; sometimes she carried their 
 child Frangoise to visit her own little daughter Jeanne, 
 at Longray or at Plessis, laughing at the tyranny 
 which the little Princess of Navarre exercised over her 
 gentle playmate, nor sparing " de bonnes corrections 
 manuelles " when the two little girls became too noisy 
 in their play. Until the summer of 1537, Jeanne 
 had lived with Mme. de Lonray at Alenc^on, where 
 she kept in the castle-yard the first turkeys in France 
 among her poultry, and where she ran so wild in the 
 great wooded park that her apple cheeks aroused the 
 merriment of her old Latin master, Nicholas de Bourbon, 
 though this worthy humourist found in his Rubella a 
 pupil as apt in turning a Latin epigram as in any sport 
 or pastime out of doors.
 
 36 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 But in the June of 1537, Francis, suspecting some 
 negotiation of Henri d'Albret's to wed the little girl 
 to the infant of Spain, ordered her removal from her 
 mother's castle of Alen^on to the gloomy Palace of 
 Plessiz-les-Tours, a French castle, where Jeanne was 
 educated at the royal cost and as a French princess. 
 This was bitter to Henri d'Albret ; he felt no gratitude 
 to his brother-in-law for providing a French prison for 
 his daughter free of charge ; and though she had been 
 as distant from him at Alencon, and though her old 
 household and her governess accompanied her to Plessis, 
 still the thought rankled that the heiress of Navarre 
 was in fact a hostage in the hands of France. 
 
 We imagine that he did not desist from that secret 
 plan of marrying her to Spain. At least the suspicions 
 of Francis were not dispelled. Suddenly, in 1441, the 
 King of France announced his intention of marrying 
 his twelve-year-old niece to William, Duke of Cleves, 
 and by this move Francis hoped at once to defy and 
 aggravate the Emperor (the enemy of Cleves), and to 
 secure himself against a Spanish match for the heiress 
 of Navarre. It was undoubtedly a clever move, but it 
 carried consternation into Jeanne's dominions. The 
 Estas of Beam more than once appealed against this 
 peremptory edict of a foreign king, which would secure 
 the poor half-confiscated little kingdom neither against 
 France nor against Spain, and would make the future 
 sovereign an absentee, living on her husband's German 
 territory. It was all in vain ; and all in vain Henri 
 d'Albret resented this imperious interference in his own 
 affairs, while Margaret vacillated between sympathy 
 with her husband and devotion to her brother. In 
 front of the angry despair of Henri, the vehement
 
 Introduction. 3 7 
 
 misery of her little daughter, Margaret appears, in 
 softer moments, to have regretted the holocaust her 
 brother bade her offer up. She promised d'Albret, as 
 Descurra informed the Court at Madrid, that she would 
 do her best to make the marriage merely a betrothal. 
 " We can betroth her to Cleves, and marry her in three 
 or four years' time to Orleans ! " (This scheme appears 
 to have succeeded the plan of the Spanish Infante — 
 perhaps it was Margaret's loyal substitution for it.) But 
 Henri d'Albret would not be appeased by dreams and 
 promises. " What 's the use } " Descurra reports him 
 to have cried. " Que aprovedia que se haga eso ; 
 y despues vos avisareis, come habeis acostumbrado } " 
 " What's the use of arranging it so, when you will let 
 out the whole matter, as you always do ! " Margaret 
 asseverated with tears and protests that, for this one 
 occasion, she would prove no tell-tale. " If you do,'' 
 burst out Hircan, with a savage snarl, " in that case I 
 promise you as miserable an old age as any woman 
 ever had ! " Thereupon Margaret despatched a secret 
 agent to Plessis, instructing Jeanne and Longarine to 
 protest inflexibly against the marriage. 
 
 But a few more weeks, a frown of her brother's, a 
 perception that this sacrifice of Jeanne and of Navarre 
 would be pleasant in his nostrils, and Margaret had 
 changed. That momentary relenting had vanished and 
 had left her hard, with the hardness of the martyr whom 
 temptation has nearly vanquished once. " I would 
 rather have seen my daughter die, as she told us she 
 should do, than I would have stayed her from going to 
 the place where I deemed she could do you a service ; " 
 so wrote Margaret to her brother, despite her knowledge 
 of the misery this match would make. She had no pity
 
 38 The Foi^tiinate Lovers. 
 
 on the strange, proud little girl whose mother would 
 not, whose father dared not, help her, and who, beaten 
 and coerced, still declared in her weak childish treble 
 that she would never love the Duke of Cleves. Or was 
 it perhaps the sternness of agonized pity and maternal 
 fear, for Margaret earnestly feared the disgrace of 
 Jeanne, and the displeasure of her uncle. There had 
 been a terrible scene in May, when the brave child had 
 dared to do for herself what no one ventured to do 
 for her. " I had rather throw myself down a well, than 
 marry the Duke of Cleves," she had declared to Francis. 
 The King had been furious, and turning to Loiigarine, 
 he had cried in a terrible voice — " Ha, Madame, I know 
 you. I recognize you here ! You have taught your 
 lesson well. But 'tis no use ! I tell you, the cutting 
 off of heads shall come of it ! " Wild with terror, the 
 timid widow had faltered, as Descurra tells us, a pacify- 
 ing apology. But the King would not listen. " Enough, 
 enough," he cried. " This is your teaching ! She sJiall 
 marry the Duke of Cleves ! " 
 
 Loiigarine and Parlainentc, familiar with the dreadful 
 consequences of a monarch's anger, had cowered and 
 trembled. It was clear the little girl must marry the 
 unwelcome bridegroom. " The Queen, my mother, has 
 threatened me," writes Jeanne in her protestation, " and 
 she has had me whipt by my governess, the Baillive de 
 Caen {Longarine), and several times my governess has 
 exhorted me by the command of the Queen, my mother, 
 threatening me that should I not do, in the matter of 
 this marriage, all that the King of France requires, I 
 shall be so flogged and maltreated, that I shall die of it, 
 and that also I shall be the cause of the ruin and de- 
 struction of my father, my mother, and all their house.
 
 Intj'odii.ction. 39 
 
 And all this has put me in such fear — especially the 
 destruction of my said father and mother — that I know 
 of no one who can succour me but God, seeing that my 
 father and my mother have forsaken me, and these know 
 well what I have said to them — that I can never love 
 the Duke of Cleves, and that I will none of him." 
 Heavy pressure, indeed, was put upon this child of 
 twelve. Can this be Parlamente striking her tender child, 
 who speaks so eloquently and so sentimentally on perfect 
 love in the "Heptameron''.^ Can this be Margaret, dis- 
 regarding prayers and tears, who pleads so earnestly with 
 her brother for Mademoiselle Destouteville in a similar 
 case ? " You may say what you will," cries Oisille in the 
 " Heptameron," " none the less must parental authority 
 be recognised ; for if people married at pleasure, what 
 unhappy marriages would there not be ! Is it to be 
 expected that a young man and a girl from twelve to 
 fifteen years of age can understand what is really their 
 good ? And, if you consider, those who have married 
 for love, come off far worse, as a rule, than those who 
 are married by force .... for a forced marriage is 
 generally made by those who have more judgment and 
 experience than those whom it chiefly concerns." 
 
 Now {pace Messrs Genin, Leroux, Franck, Lacroix, 
 and Montaiglon), it is nearly always Oisille, and not 
 Parlamente, who is Margaret's stalking horse in the 
 " Heptameron ; " and I have no doubt that these were the 
 real sentiments of La Mal-mariee, the unhappy wife of 
 Henry d'Albret. She had been married by force, and 
 she had been a little dull. She had married for love, and, 
 as the King, her nephew, lived to say, " Never were a 
 couple less united ! There is no love lost between my 
 aunt and her husband ! " Doubtless, in forcing her
 
 40 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 marriage to a distasteful bridegroom, Queen Margaret 
 intended no unkindness towards her little daughter. 
 
 But Jeanne was a determined and valiant little 
 creature. Under her exterior of a charming sprightly 
 brunette, she concealed immense resolution. She suf- 
 fered the beatings, she suffered the scoldings, but they 
 did not change her mind. Once at Plessiz, and once 
 again at Alengon, on the very eve of her marriage, she 
 called her household round her and bade them sign and 
 witness a solemn protestation : "I, Jeanne of Navarre, 
 say, and declare, and protest again before these present, 
 that the marriage to be made between me and the Duke 
 of Cleves is against my will, that I never consented to 
 it, and never will consent, .... and he shall never be 
 my husband, and never will I hold him for such, and the 
 said marriage shall be null. And I call God and you to 
 witness that you sign with me my protestation, and 
 recognise the force and violence and constraint which 
 is used towards me in the matter of this marriage." 
 
 It is difficult to say how much Margaret knew, if any- 
 thing, of these solemn declarations — the name of 
 Longarine, Margaret's confidant and friend, is conspicu- 
 ously absent from either deed. But Margaret did obtain 
 the grace of a purely formal marriage. And when two 
 years later the Duke of Cleves joined the party of the 
 Emperor, the bonds of this unwilling marriage were dis- 
 solved, and little Jeanne, happy and brilliant, was re- 
 leased from Plessiz to shine and spend and make merry 
 at her uncle's Court in Paris, with a zest of enjoyment 
 and extravagance that caused her pinched and anxious 
 mother many careful hours.
 
 Introduction. 41 
 
 VII. 
 
 1541-1544. 
 
 When the marriage of Jeanne was over, and the 
 autumn rains had come, the long anxiety and the un- 
 healthy season told upon the nerves of Margaret and 
 her husband, and they agreed to quit their capital of 
 Pau to pass the month of September at the baths of 
 Cauterets in the Pyrenees. '"Tis at that season," as 
 Margaret informs us, "that the Pyrenean springs are 
 in their fullest virtue, and to the baths of Cauterets 
 there resort many visitors from Spain, France, and 
 other countries ; some to drink the waters, others to 
 bathe in them, and others again to take the mud bath. 
 And so marvellous is the effect of these waters that 
 many return in perfect health from Cauterets who had 
 been given up for lost by their physicians." 
 
 Cauterets is a pretty place, and, in those times, it was 
 a very simple one. The great folk from France and 
 Spain dwelt in the little cottages that dotted the shady 
 pastures. Torrents and rivulets rush and gurgle down 
 the rocky country. Here in the middle of the most 
 absolute country, untamed, almost uncivilised, a little 
 knot of courtly and educated people met together, free 
 from the restraints of courts, in a fascinating com- 
 panionship. All that was easy, natural, and mirthful in 
 Margaret's nature aroused and answered to the genius 
 of the place, and long after, in her busy and harassed 
 life, the memory of Cauterets awoke a happy chord. 
 As we shall see, three years afterwards, she chose the 
 little Pyrennean Bath as the ideal meeting-place for the 
 story-tellers of the " Heptameron."
 
 42 The Foi'tttnate Lovei's. 
 
 The years from 1541 to 1544 were busy years to 
 Margaret. Her political prestige, which, since ISS^* 
 had sufifered an eclipse behind the great orb of Mont- 
 nnorency, shone out again now that he had passed out 
 of favour. With the revived antagonism of Francis to 
 the Emperor, a time of prosperity opened for the 
 tolerant Liberalism of which Margaret was the principal 
 exponent. Francis behaved with clement magnanimity 
 to the rebellious Huguenots of La Rochelle ; and no 
 more stakes in Paris flamed with the fuel of a human 
 sacrifice. The court at Fontainebleau was all for 
 tolerance and the New Ideas. The Psalms of David in 
 Marot's version rang sweetly to the airs of " Que dites- 
 vous ensemble .'' " and other popular vaudevilles, which 
 in a modern hearing still suggest the anthem rather 
 than the dance. The Dauphin himself, who was ever 
 fond of music, composed a tune for his favourite 
 psalm ; and all the personages of the Court who a year 
 or two before had expressed their individuality in 
 mottoes and posies, now adopted particular texts and 
 verses, which they considered peculiarly appropriate to 
 themselves. There exists a portrait of Diane de Poic- 
 tiers, with written around that unemotional, provocative 
 face the verse that runs in English, " Like as the 
 hart after the water brooks, so yearns my soul for Thee, 
 O God ; " and no doubt this respectable lady (less the 
 courtezan than the morganatic wife), saw nothing 
 humorous in her position as a leader of fashionable 
 piety. She was eminently bien-pensante, and the only 
 thing surprising to her contemporaries in this devotion 
 was that so eminent a Catholic should quote a work so 
 doubtfully orthodox as the Psalms. Cardinal de Tour- 
 non was genuinely alarmed; and Villemadou, Margaret's
 
 Introduction. 43 
 
 envoy, was pleasantly surprised at the vogue for psalm 
 singing which had invaded the Court of Fountainebleau. 
 They might have spared their alarm and their surprise. 
 This Lutheran piety was but the passing fashion of an 
 hour. 
 
 Three years later the fashion had gone by ; the peace 
 of Crecy had woven a disastrous bond of brotherly 
 affection between the Emperor and the King of France. 
 Charles V, had promised Milan to the youngest son 
 of Francis, and Italian things were all the mode at 
 Court. Diane was greater than ever, supported by the 
 Guises (" ink cannot express the omnipotence of this 
 lady ! " writes Ricasoli), but she no longer wore a text 
 for aureole round her head. Music was still the 
 vogue, but not the Psalms of Marot. " The Prince of 
 Salerno is still at Fontainebleau," wrote Bernardo de 
 Medici in December, " He has made guitars all the 
 fashion here. Every lady has her own, and they make 
 him sing a couple of Neapolitan songs every evening." 
 The Scriptures and the Commentaries of Lefebvre were 
 laid upon the shelf; and all the reading now was from 
 the hundred novels of Boccacio, recently translated into 
 French by Antoine Le Magon, one of the gentlemen of 
 the Queen of Navarre. " In this book," said Margaret, 
 "so much delight was taken by the most Christian 
 King, Francis, first of the name, by my Lord Dauphin, 
 Madame the Dauphiness, and Madame Marguerite, 
 that if Boccacio from the place where he is could have 
 heard their voices, he would have been brought to life 
 again by the praise of such as they." 
 
 Yet while the Court of the Dauphin rang with gay 
 Neapolitan airs, and people at Court took their pleasure, 
 the King had grown old and ill and melancholy. In the
 
 44 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 autumn of 1 544 he had sent for Margaret to come from 
 Alengon to amuse him. To amuse a blase king is, as 
 a proficient in that art has told us, " aimiser tinainus- 
 abte." Margaret was grateful to the novels of the 
 Decameron, which chased away for an hour or two the 
 pain and depression of her brother. She began to tell 
 him stories of her own, an accomplishment in which the 
 gifted Parlamente excelled. " Elle triompha de bien 
 dire et bien haranguer," wrote Brantome, who cannot say 
 too much of "sa bonne grace et son beau dire," and she 
 describes herself in her own novels as "knowing well 
 how to tell a story with point and grace." We know 
 that Madame Marguerite, her niece, and herniece-in-law, 
 Madame Catherine de Medecis, tried to imitate her 
 talent all in vain, and gave up the attempt from a 
 conviction of their own inferiority. But when Margaret 
 was at Court these two young ladies were still in the 
 full zest of their intention. " These two illustrious prin- 
 cesses," we read in the Prologue to the " Heptameron," 
 " have determined also to make a Decameron ; only 
 in one thing different from Boccaccio — that they would 
 write no novel that should not be the truth. And with 
 M. le Dauphin with them, and as many as would make 
 ten persons in all (such as they considered worthy to 
 tell their stories), they decided each to write ten. But 
 they would not admit students or men of letters to 
 their number, for Monseigneur le Dauphin did not 
 wish that their art should be mingled with this sport. 
 Also, he feared that the beauties of rhetoric might do 
 wrong to some portion of the veritable story." 
 
 This task, as we know, came to nothing, partly 
 because these young ladies, though clever, found them- 
 selves unequal to the task, and partly as Margaret
 
 Introduction. 45 
 
 remarks, on account of the important historical events 
 which took place in the autumn and winter of 1544. 
 The task which they dropt, Margaret appears to have 
 taken up, writing in her litter as she jogged along the 
 bad roads of her Duchies of Berry and Alengon ; 
 "my grandmother holding the ink-horn," as Brantome 
 records, " for she wrote nearly all her novels as she rode 
 along the roads, she was so busy with great occupations, 
 even in her retirement. I have often heard my grand- 
 mother tell the story." Through that winter and the 
 following spring, the earlier novels flowed from her facile 
 pen, and in remembered Cauterets she placed the wittiest 
 of her companions, and made them tell, as the Dauphin 
 had intended, true stories of real life. Partly to this 
 actuality of the "Heptameron" we must attribute its im- 
 mense success at Court. To the literary interest, the 
 dramatic interest, the pious interest, and the shameful 
 interest of lubricity, it added exactly that peculiar inter- 
 est which attracts the readers of the World and T^'iith, 
 or the Strange True Stories of the Pall Mall Gazette. 
 These tales were not only true, they were all about 
 people with whom everybody was acquainted. " There 
 is none among us," as Dagoucin observes, " who does 
 not know the kinsfolk on both sides." On this account 
 the Court at Fontainebleau swallowed many a pious 
 exposition, many a text ; and on this account, let us 
 own, we swallow many a light adventure, many a gross 
 or brutal tale to-day. And here, because it is very tire- 
 some and a little insincere to hunt about to find new 
 words for a thought expressed before, I may perhaps be 
 forgiven for repeating one page from my life of Margaret 
 of Angouleme. The real salt of the " Heptameron," as I 
 confided to my readers then, lies in this naive, uncon-
 
 46 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 sidered, and unselectcd realism. A great many details, 
 quite absurd and trivial in themselves, which Queen 
 Margaret introduced merely because so they happened, 
 or so she heard them told, surprise and delight us by 
 their fresh veracity. From the very first novel of all we 
 seem plunged into a strange world of contrasts, a world 
 of beautiful light-minded ladies, to whom as to Enna- 
 suitte, the life or death of common people is a trivial 
 alternative. These exquisite creatures ("si divines et 
 delicates," as Margaret herself wrote of Madame 
 d'Estampes) spend their time in broidering in open-work, 
 red silken counterpanes ; in reading (they all know it 
 by heart) La Belle Dame saiis Merci ; in devising inter- 
 views with their lovers ; or in visiting the fashionable 
 magician of the town in order to observe the wasting of 
 the waxen images of those whom they design to slay. 
 (Gallery was this wizard's name. He tried to remove 
 Queen Margaret herself It gives us a little shock to 
 meet him in such refined and cultured society.) But 
 there are strange flaws in the splendour of this sumptu- 
 ous civilization. Torture is still used in the civic trials of 
 Alengon, where the Duke has absolute power of life and 
 death like any Duke in Shakespeare's plays. Ten 
 crowns is the proper wage for a hired assassin (we are 
 delighted to know the exact fee), and sanctuary is still 
 given to such gentry in palaces and churches, though 
 the ends of justice are usually secured by a process of 
 starving out the refugees. All this seems out of date 
 beside the general spread of wealth and comfort. Even 
 among the lower bourgeoisie, servants are to be found 
 in every house, engaged by the quarter, not by the year, 
 as in England. There is abundance of rich tapestries ; 
 in the humblest household the beds, even of the servants,
 
 Introdtiction. 47 
 
 are well and warmly curtained ; and the Lit d' Jiommir 
 is large enough to hold several persons. It is still con- 
 sidered a mark of esteem to invite a distinguished eucst 
 to share the couch of the host and hostess, yet, in other 
 respects, there is no lack of privacy. The wives of the 
 small burghers — of the clerks, the shopkeepers — have 
 dressing-rooms and parlours ; their houses have large 
 gardens and orchards. There is plenty of room. There 
 is, also, plenty of money. When the clerk's son goes to 
 woo the draper's daughter, he and his mother make a 
 great purchase of thick silks (" for, as for money, you 
 know how little these shopkeepers are in need of tJiat 
 sort of drug," cries Margaret), and the women dress in 
 taffetas, in silks, even in velvet, " which was once only 
 worn by women of good family," and the men, even of 
 the humbler sort, astonished the Venetian envoys by 
 the splendour of their silk apparel. 
 
 There is no dearth of good cheer, of comfort, even of 
 luxury among these people, who may none the less be 
 burned for heresy or witchcraft, or tortured with cord 
 and rack if they offend the law. The chief blot on this 
 rich diffusion of wealth, is the corruption of the clergy. 
 The confessor, if all tales be true, is a serious danger in 
 every household ; and the convents and monasteries offer 
 to innocent youth temptations infinitely grosser than 
 the temptations of the world outside. Yet lax, immoral, 
 irreligious as it is, this good-humoured and vigorous 
 world of the " Heptameron " compares favourably 
 enough with the world of the Italian novelists, full of 
 wars, plague, cruelty, and unnatural vices ; and although 
 by far less pure, it is in many respects superior to the 
 world of Cervantes' Novelas, with its violent contrasts 
 of squalid beggars and merchants from the Indies
 
 48 The Forhuiate Lovei^s. 
 
 fabulously rich, with its gold fever in the air, its 
 epidemic of vagabondage, its national blight of jeal- 
 ousy and slavery and superstition. By the sides of 
 these pictures of Italy and Spain, we see in the " Hep- 
 tameron " a world full of good humour and well-being, 
 of life and wealth and stirring impulse, of signs of 
 prosperity and vigour. And, such as it is, this world is 
 the world of Margaret and her contemporaries. The 
 life, the manners, even the persons of those bygone 
 years continue for us in these enchanted pages. And 
 as we rummage among their out-dated gallantry, their 
 dubious adventures, their strangely fashioned piety 
 (imagine Dame Quickly in a Geneva cap and bands !), 
 we find forgotten among the incongruous medley, a 
 handful of the Life of the Past ; we feel it warm in our 
 hands as we had never hoped to feel it, and, for its sake, 
 we pardon a multitude of sins. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The " Heptameron " was little more than half com- 
 pleted when the ailing King for whose diversion it was 
 written had gone beyond the reach of the most loving 
 entertainment. On the 31st of March, in the year 1547, 
 King Francis died. For more than a fortnight no one 
 ventured to acquaint his sister with his death ; but while 
 the anxious courtiers paused and tarried, and made 
 excuses. Queen Margaret discovered her bereavement 
 for herself. In the convent where she was staying, 
 there was a crazy nun ; and one day in April, hearing 
 this unhappy innocent weeping in the cloisters as if for 
 a very heart-break, the gentle Queen went to the poor, 
 harmless fool, and stooped above the crouching figure, 
 and tried to comfort her. " For yo2c, Madame, for you,
 
 Infrodicction. 49 
 
 Madame. I weep for yoti. ! " cried the demented girl. 
 Then Margaret knew what no one sane had dared to 
 tell her — Francis the First was dead. 
 
 With Francis died the influence of Margaret, much 
 of her income, all her interest in great affairs. She was 
 no one now. She sat at home at Nerac, or in the 
 convent at Tusson, trying to make both ends meet 
 spending nothing on herself (in one year not quite a 
 livre for wooden combs and pins), trying to reduce the 
 thoughtless extravagance of gay little Jeanne in Paris. 
 The Egeria of the Valois had shrunk into nothing more 
 majestic than a melancholy anxious housewife. Seven 
 months after the death of Francis, Ricasoli wrote to the 
 Grand Duke of Tuscany : " And one thing that seems 
 to me especially worth)' of remark is the continued 
 absence from Court of the Oueen of Navarre ; she has 
 never been here once ; not once has she encountered the 
 new king, and it is the same with regard to the King 
 of Navarre." The prestige of Margaret was at an end. 
 
 The Court was still divided into two parties, but 
 neither of them was now the party of Margaret. The 
 Liberals, if we may call them so, had disappeared 
 utterly from view, and only the party of the Dauphin 
 remained, divided now into two different camps, each 
 of which regarded Henri as its chief, its patron, and its 
 exponent. On one side of him were ranged the Guises 
 and Diane de Poictiers ; on the other. Queen Catherine, 
 Montmorency, and Vendome. It is necessary to us to 
 notice their position, because almost the first political 
 Act of Henri H. was to marry his cousin Jeanne 
 d'Albret to a French prince. Either party at the 
 Court put forth a pretender to the hand which carried 
 in its slender grasp the kingdom of Navarre. The 
 
 D
 
 50 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 Guises nominated Frangois de Guise, Due d'Aumale. 
 The party of Montmorency named as its candidate 
 Antoine de Bourbon, the Duke of Vendome. 
 
 Margaret, as I have said, was represented by neither 
 party ; yet, of the twain, she preferred the politics of 
 Montmorency to those of his opponents. Towards the 
 Guises she felt that presage of evil, that instinctive 
 antipathy which had haunted her brother in his dying 
 hours ; and though none knew better than she the 
 tyrannous temper, the black bile, the sour severity of 
 Montmorency, there was in the man something up- 
 right, honest, and even noble, which made it impossible 
 for Margaret, in spite of injury and insult, to for- 
 get or to repudiate their ancient friendship. After 
 the death of Francis she appears to have drawn 
 closer to Montmorency. She and the old Constable 
 were equally outraged and aggrieved, when at the 
 French Court, Aumale was suggested as a husband for 
 the heiress of Navarre. " That villain ! " cried the old 
 Constable. " The Queen of Navarre will not even hear 
 him mentioned," writes Ricasoli in November. 
 
 It was not only her hatred of the Guises that gave 
 Margaret the resolution to oppose the match. Henri 
 of Navarre had always hoped to marry the girl in Spain, 
 and it is difficult to acquit Margaret of some com- 
 plicity in his design. It is certain she was suspected of 
 it at Court ; for all letters and packets addressed to 
 the King and Queen of Navarre were privately opened 
 by Montmorency in search of treasonable corre- 
 spondence. Henri II. was determined to attach 
 Navarre to France, and not to Spain, but he was not 
 obstinate in pushing the fortunes of Aumale. When 
 he heard of his aunt's bitter dislike to this suitor, he
 
 Inti^odziction. 
 
 51 
 
 quietly brought forward another to whom no vah'd ob- 
 jection could be made. The Duke of Vendome was a sort 
 of nephew of Margaret's : the son of her sister-in-law of 
 Alencon. He was yoimg, rich, pious, with a leaning 
 towards reform, chivalrous and gentle. He was the 
 first prince of the blood after the royal children. Yet 
 Margaret and her husband continued indirectly to 
 oppose this marriage which their daughter welcomed 
 with enthusiasm. Jeanne was as eager to marry 
 Antoine de Bourbon, young, French, amiable, and 
 generous, as she had been determined not to marry 
 William of Cleves. Again she was successful, Henri 
 n. triumphed over the vague obstacles put forward by 
 his aunt and her husband ; and, on the 20th October 
 1548, Jeanne was married, the most cheerful bride in 
 France. 
 
 The gay little girl, full of songs and laughter, accom- 
 panied her father and mother on some visits in Guienne 
 and to Nevers ; and the joyous temper of Jeanne must 
 have cheered her mother ; for Margaret, whom Henri 
 n. describes in October as "crying more than any 
 woman you ever saw," a few months later is continuing 
 the " Heptameron," apparently on excellent terms with 
 her daughter and her son-in-law. But her cheerful 
 moments were few and rare. A melancholy lethargy 
 weighed her down, a horror of death, an impotent 
 curiosity as to the existence of soul possessed her. 
 She was dying. To die, to die. We all do it. And 
 what is it to die } To drop into the abyss of non- 
 existence : so says the natural man. To escape from a 
 world of shows into Whatever is : so speaks the 
 philosophic thought. To return to God : so hopes the 
 soul of faith. ]\Iargarct was a pious woman, yet when
 
 52 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 the women who loved her spoke with her of Paradise, 
 she would sigh very uneasily, "All that is true — and 
 yet. And yet ive stay so long under the earth before we 
 get tJiere!'" The physical and material bias of her 
 nature, which had made living easy, made dying 
 difficult. The obvious fate of the body was dreadful to 
 her ; dreadful also the uncertain destiny of the soul. 
 
 To die ! How different the world looks in the 
 strange uncertain moonlight of the thought of Death ! 
 Margaret was not happy ; the melancholy, the lethargy 
 that possessed her grew deeper and colder day by day. 
 Nothing gave her pleasure ; yet, when her physicians 
 told her she must die, she wept, and prayed to live, and 
 wept again. Only to live ! Only to feel the solid earth 
 still firm under the living frame — to see the sun — to be 
 whole, and sane, and alive. Not yet to be shut down 
 in that black chasm open under all our feet. " Oh, I 
 am not so old yet," she cried ; " but I might yet have a 
 year to hve!" She was not old, she was but fifty-seven. 
 But while she was rebelling at her fate, and protesting 
 her valid years, a young girl among her maidens died. 
 Margaret had loved the child, and sat by her to the 
 end, entranced — not with despair or love, but with 
 curiosity and horror. With fixed eyes, in a mono- 
 maniac persistency of gaze, she dwelt on the face of the 
 sufferer. She was dead. " But the soul ! " cried the 
 queen, "how did the soul escape.^ I looked for the 
 soul to watch it issue from her lips, and I beheld 
 nothing." 
 
 When it was possible, Margaret escaped from her 
 dread of dying into her novels, her songs, her volumi- 
 nous correspondence. With these she tried to bar out 
 the future, as the wintry nights bar out the day from
 
 Introduction, 53 
 
 our window-panes with their fine ineffectual screens of 
 frost-work. Strange to think of this dying woman 
 dying in such a horror as Claudio knew, yet striving to 
 engage or to distract her mind by impious Httle stories 
 of adultery. With what a bitter under-current of con- 
 viction must she not have penned the novel which 
 records how a certain lord, standing at the death-bed of 
 his wife, turned, before the breath had left her body, to 
 kiss the chambermaid. For the old love between Mar- 
 garet and her husband had turned now into something 
 discordant, bitter, disenchanted. " There is no love 
 lost," laughs the King of France, " between my good 
 aunt and her husband — never were a couple less united. 
 .... She is at daggers drawn with him. You never 
 saw any woman cry so much as she when her daughter 
 went away ; and if it had not been for me she would 
 never have gone back with her husband. . . . As for 
 him, you know the man ! He thinks of nothing but 
 amassing a fortune and making good cheer. And now 
 that his daughter is once safely married, he pretends to 
 be the best contented father in the world." 
 
 This is our last glimpse of Pm'lanieiite and Hircan. 
 On the 2 1st of December 1549, at the castle of Odos, 
 Margaret died. " She was," as the Venetian Cavalli 
 wrote, " the wisest not only of the women but of the 
 men of France." She had done good work in her day — 
 good work, of which the " Heptameron " ranks as by far 
 the least. Yet, with the fatality inherent in human 
 things, none of her labour was permanent. She had 
 protected religious liberty, and the red dawn of the 
 Saint Bartholomew was but a cloud's breadth below the 
 dull horizon. She had striven all her life to weld 
 together the Liberal league. France and England,
 
 54 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 Venice and Hungary, Turkey and Switzerland, they all 
 fell apart like beads when the string is broken. 
 
 It is by the least of her work that she is the most 
 remembered. Nine years after her death a certain 
 Pierre Boiastuau gathered together the novels of the 
 Queen of Navarre, familiar in manuscript to the Courts 
 of two kingdoms, and Gilles of Paris published Les 
 Amans fortunes. Next year in 1559, Claude Gruget 
 brought out another edition, and called this unfinished 
 new Decameron by a name of his own lucky finding : 
 " The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre." In both 
 these collections many passages (unfitted to the age of 
 the Index Expurgatorius and the Council of Trent) were 
 expurged ; and the halo of the Grey Friar was not 
 darkened by the malicious veracity of Margaret. The 
 book obtained a great success. It was in 1654 trans- 
 lated into English to delight the Court of the Puritan 
 Cromwell. In France edition followed edition, altered 
 and beautified to suit the taste of successive centuries. 
 Finally in 1853, M. Le Roux de Lincy published an 
 edition after the original manuscripts in the Bibliotheque 
 Nationale, of Avhich the careful text remains unequalled. 
 M. La Croix in 1858, and M. Felix Frank in 1879 have 
 edited the " Heptameron" with learned and abundant 
 notes. M. Montaiglon and M. Genin have added their 
 weighty evidence. The research of many scholars has 
 carried a light into the dark places. The gate is open. 
 Whosoever will may enter ; and, as the German 
 peasants thought to find Barbarossa sitting eternally 
 with his knights in an enchanted chamber, so in the 
 everlasting meadows of the " Heptameron " we have 
 found Queen Margaret and her companions, their faces, 
 it is true, a little indistinct in the twilight, but still alive 
 and still discoursing, oblivious of the flight of time.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 On the first day in September/ when as the springs of 
 the Pyrenean mountains begin to assume their virtue, 
 there came together at those of Cauterets many persons 
 from France, Spain, and other countries ; some to drink 
 of the water, some to bathe therein, and others to take 
 the mud-bath. And each and all of these are so mar- 
 vellous in their operation that men given up by the 
 doctors return from Cauterets whole and sound. Yet 
 my aim is neither to show forth the place nor the virtue 
 of these springs aforesaid, but only to relate that which 
 appertaineth to the matter on which I am about to 
 write. Now there tarried in this place for more than 
 three weeks all the sick folk, until they discovered by 
 the good case of their bodies that it was fit for them to 
 return. But at the time appointed for their setting 
 forth, there fell such great rains that it seemed as if God 
 had forgotten the prom.ise that He made to Noah, not 
 again to destroy the world by water, since by it all the 
 cottages of Cauterets were so filled that no one could 
 dwell therein. And those who came from the land of 
 Spain returned thither by the mountains, as best they 
 could, and, trust me, they who had a good knowledge 
 of the tracks were the ones to fare best. But the ladies 
 and gentlemen of France, thinking to get them back to 
 
 ^ In September 1541 Queen Margaret visited the baths of Cauterets 
 with her husband.
 
 56 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 Therbes as easily as they came, found the rivulets so 
 swollen, that they were hardly to be crossed. And 
 having come to the Gave Bearnois, which when they 
 went was not more than two feet deep, they found it so 
 mighty and rushing a stream that they turned aside to 
 seek for bridges, but these being but of wood had been 
 carried away by the strength of the torrent. Some 
 indeed, believing that they could withstand its force by 
 fording it in a body, were so quickly borne away, that 
 the rest; though they would fain cross, had small wish 
 to do so ; and so, as their inclination was, they separated 
 and went in divers directions to seek for some new 
 way. Some taking the mountain track, and passing 
 through Arragon, came to the county of Rousillon and 
 to Narbonne, and others fared straight to Barcelona, 
 whence sailing they got to Marseilles and Aigue- 
 morte. 
 
 But a certain widow, of much experience, named 
 Oisille, determined to lay by all fear of the bad roads, 
 and to journey to Our Lady of Serrance. Not that she 
 was of so superstitious a mind as to think that the 
 glorious Virgin would leave her session by the right 
 hand of her Son, and dwell in that desert land, but 
 only for her great desire of seeing that holy place of 
 which so great a noise had come to her ears, and being 
 assured likewise that if there were any way out of this 
 peril, the monks would be advised thereof. And this 
 she accomplished, yet traversing such a wild country 
 and ways as hard to go up as to come down, that 
 although she was old and slow in movement, she had 
 to go the best part of the journey on foot. But of this 
 the worst was that most of her folk and her horses died 
 on the way, so she came to Serrance, having one man
 
 Prologue. 57 
 
 and one woman only, and was there taken in and 
 kindly entreated by the monks. 
 
 Now there were among the French travellers two 
 gentlemen who had gone to the springs, rather that they 
 might accompany their ladies than for any failing in 
 their health. And seeing that the company was setting 
 forth, and that the husbands of their ladies were like- 
 wise taking them away, they thought fit to follow them 
 from afar, without making anyone privy to their design. 
 But it came to pass that one evening when the married 
 gentlemen were lodged with their wives at the house of 
 one who was more a robber than a churl, that the lovers 
 of these ladies, who were also lodged in a cottage hard 
 by, heard at night a great tumult. Whereupon they 
 and their servants arose, and enquired of their host what 
 this noise might be. And he, much afraid, told them 
 that it was some Roaring Boys, who had come to take 
 their share of the booty that was at the house of the 
 robber, their comrade ; at which the young gallants 
 forthwith laid hold of their arms, and with their servants 
 went to the succour of the ladies, accounting death for 
 them far sweeter than life without them. And when 
 they came to the place they found the outer gate 
 broken in, and the two husbands with their servants 
 defending themselves full bravely. But since the num- 
 ber of the robbers was great, and they were grievously 
 wounded, having by this time lost the greater part of 
 their servants, they were beginning to give way. The 
 two gallants, seeing their ladies wailing and entreating 
 at the windows, were worked by pity and love to such 
 a point of courage that, after the fashion of two bears 
 rushing down from the mountains, they burst upon the 
 robbers and so handled them that many were killed,
 
 58 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 and those left alive would not stay for any more blows, 
 but escaped to their hiding place as best they could. 
 The two gallants, having put these villains to flight, 
 and killed the host among the rest, heard that the 
 hostess was worse than her mate, whereupon they, with 
 the thrust of a sword, sent her to join him. Next, 
 entering into one of the lower rooms they found therein 
 one of the married gentlemen, who presently gave up 
 the ghost. The other was scot-free of wounds, yet was 
 all his vesture pierced with sword-thrusts, and his own 
 sword broken in two. This poor man, beholding before 
 him his rescue, prayed the young men, after both 
 embracing and thanking them, by no means to leave 
 him, which was to them a request mighty pleasant. 
 And after they had buried the dead man, and comforted, 
 after the best sort they could, his widow, they set forth 
 again, not knowing which road to take, but leaving it 
 in God's hands. And if it be your pleasure to know 
 the names of these three gentlemen, the one who was 
 married was called Hircan, and his wife Parlamente, 
 and the widow was Longarine. And the names of the 
 two gallants were Dagoucin and Safifredent. And after 
 that they had been all the day on horseback, toward 
 evensong they made out a spire, whither, after much 
 travail and labour, they arrived. Now this was the 
 spire of the abbey of St Savyn, and here they were 
 taken in and well entreated by the abbot and his 
 monks. And the abbot, who was of a noble house, 
 gave them good lodging, and as he waited upon them 
 to their rooms, enquired of them their hap. And 
 having heard how bad it was he told them that they 
 were not alone in tasting of misfortune, for he had in 
 one of his rooms two ladies who had escaped equal, if
 
 Prologue. 59 
 
 not greater peril, since they had had to do not with 
 men but with beasts, in whom there is no pity. For 
 these poor ladies, when half a league on this side of 
 Peyrechitte, had met a bear coming down from the 
 mountain, from before which they had fled at such a 
 rate that at the gate of the abbey their horses dropped 
 dead under them, and two of their maids, who came in 
 a long while after, told them that the bear had killed 
 all their men-servants. Then did the two ladies and 
 the three gentlemen go into the room where these 
 unhappy ones were lodged, and found them weeping, 
 and knew them for Nomerfide and Ennasiutte. So 
 having embraced one another, they told what had 
 befallen them, and in concert with the good abbot, 
 comforted themselves for having again fallen into com- 
 pany. And in the morning they heard mass with 
 much devotion, praising God for the perils which were 
 overpast. 
 
 And while they were all at mass there came into the 
 church a man clad only in his shirt, flying as if some 
 one pursued him, and crying for help. Straightway 
 did Hircan and the other gentlemen go forth to dis- 
 cover what the affair was ; and there they beheld two 
 men with drawn swords, wdio followed after him ; and 
 these seeing so great a number, would fain have fled ; 
 but Hircan and his company pursued them and put 
 them to the sword. And when the aforesaid Hircan 
 returned he found that the man clad in the shirt was 
 Geburon, one of his comrades, who said that while he 
 was in bed in a cottage near Peyrechitte there came 
 upon him three men, and though he was in his shirt 
 and armed only with a sword, he so shrewdly wounded 
 one that he died upon the spot. And whilst the two
 
 6o The Fortwiate Lover's. 
 
 others set themselves to succour their fellow, he, per- 
 ceiving that he was naked and the robbers armed, 
 thought he could scarcely win save by flight, being 
 little impeded by his dress. And for the good event 
 of this he gave thanks to God, and to those who had 
 for him done vengeance. 
 
 After they had heard mass and dined, they went to 
 see if it were possible to cross the Gave, and seeing 
 that it was not they were in great affray, although the 
 abbot many times entreated them to abide there until 
 the waters were abated, and to this for the day they 
 agreed. And in the evening, as they were going to 
 bed, there came an old monk who, for many a year, 
 had failed not to be present during September at Our 
 Lady of Serrance. And on their asking him the news 
 of his journey, he said that by reason of the floods he 
 had come by the mountain tracks, and that they were 
 the worst roads he had ever been on. But one most 
 pitiful case he had to tell, and this was that he had 
 found a young gentleman named Simontault, who, 
 weary of the long time the floods took to abate, had 
 determined to force the passage, trusting in the good- 
 ness of his horse, and having first placed all his serving- 
 men around him, thereby to break the force of the 
 water. But when they were in mid-stream, those who 
 were badly mounted were borne headlong, men and 
 horses, down stream and were never rescued. The 
 gentleman finding himself alone, turned his horse to 
 the bank whence he came, yet not so sharply as to 
 avail anything. But God willed that he was so near 
 to the shore as to be able, drawing himself on his hands 
 and knees, and drinking a great deal of water, to reach 
 the rough flintstones on the bank, so weak and feeble
 
 Prologue. 6 1 
 
 that he could not stand. But it chanced well for him 
 that a shepherd, bringing his sheep home at evening, 
 found him lying there among the stones, soaking wet, 
 and sad at heart as well for himself as for his folk 
 whom he had seen perishing before his eyes. The 
 shepherd, who perceived his case more by his look 
 than by his words, took him by the hand and led him 
 to his cottage, where he dried him with a fire of broken 
 sticks as well as might be. And, that night, God led 
 thither this good monk, who showed him the way to 
 Our Lady of Serrance, and told him he would be 
 lodged there in better fashion than in any other place, 
 and that he would find there an aged widow called 
 Oisille, who was indeed his equal in misfortunes. And 
 when all the company heard of the good lady Oisille, 
 and the gentle knight Simontault, that they were safe, a 
 great joy fell on them, and they praised the Creator that, 
 deeming the serving-men and maids sufficient sacrifice, 
 he had kept alive their master and mistress ; and above 
 all did Parlamente give thanks unto God from the 
 bottom of her heart, for long ago he had been her most 
 devoted servitor. And having made careful inquiry of 
 the road to Serrance, although the good old man 
 showed them how difficult it was, yet none the less did 
 they determine to journey there ; and on that v^xy 
 day did they set forth without lack of anything, for the 
 abbot had given them of the best horses that were in 
 Lavedan, and goodly cloaks of Beam, and abundant 
 store of food, and an escort to guide them safely across 
 the mountains. And so, faring more on foot than horse- 
 back, with great sweat and travail they come to Our 
 Lady of Serrance, where the abbot, though he was an 
 inhospitable man, durst not refuse them lodging, for the
 
 62 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 fear he had of the Lord of Beam, by whom he knew 
 them to be well beloved ; ^ but he, being a well-taught 
 hypocrite, put on for them his most obliging face, and 
 led them to see the good lady Oisille and the gentle 
 knight Simontault. 
 
 Now such delight was on the company, in such 
 wondrous wise gathered together, that to them all the 
 night seemed short, praising God in the church for the 
 mercy he had showed toward them. And after that 
 in the morning they had taken some short rest, 
 they all went to hear mass and to receive the Holy 
 Sacrament of concord, in which all Christians are 
 united into one body, imploring Him who had gathered 
 them together to perfect their journey to his glory. 
 After dinner they sent to know if the floods were not 
 yet abated, and finding that they were rather increased, 
 they determined to make them a bridge, fixing it on 
 two rocks which are very near to one another, and 
 where there are still planks for those on foot, who, 
 coming from Oleron, may wish to cross the Gave. In 
 much delight was the abbot that they performed this 
 at their own charges, to the end that the number of 
 pilgrims and gifts should be increased for him, and so 
 he furnished them with labourers, yet not one farthing 
 did he give of his own, for he was too miserly. And 
 since the labourers said that the bridge could not be 
 finished before ten or twelve days, both the men and 
 women of the company began to be very weary ; but 
 Parlamente, the wife of Hircan, who was never listless 
 or melancholy, having asked of her husband leave to 
 speak, spoke thus to the aged lady Oisille : " Good 
 
 1 Of course the Lord of Beam was Henri d'Albret, that is to say, Hircan 
 himself.
 
 Prologue. 63 
 
 mistress, I am amazed that you, who have had so great 
 experience, and who stand towards us women as a 
 mother, do not think of some pastime wherewith to 
 subdue this weariness of ours at the long delay ; for if 
 we do not get some pleasant and seemly pursuit we 
 shall be in danger of growing sick." To this added the 
 young widow Longarine : " And what is worse we shall 
 grow peevish, and hardly to be cu^red thereof; for if 
 you will consider there is no man nor maid amongst us 
 but has occasion enough for sorrow." Ennasiutte, 
 laughing, replied to her : " Not every one of us has lost 
 a husband as you have, and as for serving-men one 
 need not despair on their account, for others are to be 
 had ; natheless I am well persuaded that we should 
 have some pleasant pursuit to pass the time, or else we 
 shall be dead by the morrow." All the gentlemen were 
 of their mind, and would have the lady Oisille declare 
 to them what they should do, and she thus replied : 
 '* My children, it is a hard thing this that you ask of 
 me, to show you some pastime that will free you from 
 your weariness. For this I have sought through my 
 whole life, and only one pastime have I found — namely, 
 the reading of the Holy Scriptures, where is found the 
 true and perfect joy of the spirit, whence there cometh 
 health and rest to the body. And if you ask how I, 
 at my years, can be so cheerful and healthy, I tell you 
 that when I rise in the morning I straightway take the 
 Holy Scriptures and read therein, considering and 
 meditating on the goodness of God in sending, for our 
 sake. His Son upon the earth to make manifest those 
 good tidings in which He doth promise forgiveness of 
 all sins, and satisfaction for all trespasses through the 
 gift of His love, passion, and merits. This it is that
 
 64 The Fortimate Lovers. 
 
 makes me to be glad, so that I take my psalter, and in 
 most lowly fashion do sing from my heart and indite 
 with my mouth those psalms and canticles with which 
 the Holy Spirit hath inspired David and the other 
 writers. And this delight that I have in them is so 
 great that all mishaps the day can bring show to me 
 but as blessings, seeing that I have in my heart by 
 faith Him who hath borne my sorrows. In like manner 
 before I sup I go apart to give my soul His pasture in 
 the Scriptures, and then in the evening I recall to my 
 mind all that I have done during the day that is past, 
 asking of God pardon for my sins, and thanking Him 
 for the grace which He hath bestowed upon me ; so in 
 His love, and fear, and peace, I take my rest well 
 assured against all perils. Behold, then, my children, 
 the pastime to which I am attached, and have been a 
 long while, after having searched all others, and not 
 finding contentment therein for my spirit. Methinks, 
 therefore, that if in the mornings you would give an 
 hour to reading, and this done, pray devoutly at mass, 
 you would ;^find in this desert place a greater beauty 
 than there is in cities, for he who knoweth God beholds 
 ail things beautiful in Him, and without Him nothing 
 is fair ; wherefore I entreat you that you receive my 
 counsel, if you would live joyously." Next did Hircan 
 take up the discourse, and said : " Good mistress, those 
 who have read the Holy Scriptures, as I believe we all 
 have, will agree that what you say is altogether true. 
 Natheless, you must consider that these bodies of ours 
 are not so mortified as not to need also some exercise, 
 for if we were at our houses we should have hunting 
 and falconry, to make us forget our idle thoughts ; 
 while the ladies have their housewifery, their tambour-
 
 Prologue, 6 5 
 
 work, and sometimes dancing, wherein they can take 
 seemly exercise. And all this makes me say (speaking 
 on behalf of the men) that you, who are most in years, 
 shall read to us in the morning time somewhat of the 
 life of our Lord Jesus Christ, and of the mighty and 
 admirable works that He hath done for us ; but as to 
 the hours between dinner and evensong we have yet to 
 find some pastime that may be wholesome for the soul 
 and pleasant to the body, and so with all this shall the 
 day be passed joyously." 
 
 The lady Oisille said she had had such toil to put 
 out of mind all worldly vanities that she feared any 
 choice of hers would be a bad one ; but it was necessary 
 to put the matter to the vote, and would have Hircan 
 give his opinion first. " As for me," said Hircan, " I 
 am assured that Parlamente, my wife, better than any 
 other, can tell us of some pastime for all ; and I do 
 herewith profess myself of her mind, whatever it may 
 be, and will in this matter be led entirely by her." 
 And to this the whole company agreed. Whereupon 
 Parlamente, seeing that the lot was fallen upon her, 
 spoke as follows : " If I felt within me such parts as 
 had the ancients by whom were all arts invented, I 
 would invent some game to discharge the duty that 
 you have laid upon me ; but knowing my wit and my 
 power, how little it is, and scarce able so much as to 
 call to mind how others have performed well this very 
 thing, I shall esteem myself lucky if I can but follow 
 in their steps. Among the rest I think that there is not 
 one of you who has not read those Hundred Novels of 
 Boccaccio, lately done from the Italian into French. 
 These did King Francis, first of his name, his Highness 
 the Dauphin, the Princess his wife, and my lady 
 
 E
 
 66 The Fortunate Lover's. 
 
 Margaret his sister, esteem at such a price that if old 
 Boccaccio could have heard them from the place where 
 he is, he would have been, through the praises of such 
 mighty folk, well-nigh brought to life again. And I 
 hear that these two illustrious ladies ^ have determined 
 
 ^ Madame Marguerite de France, the youngest daughter of Francis I., 
 afterwards married the Duke of Savoy; she was a very learned young 
 lady, the Minerva of the Royal Court at Paris. In all her studies she 
 was seconded by her sister-in-law, the Dauphine Catherine de' Medici. 
 Catherine, left an orphan in her babyhood, was the great-grandchild of 
 Lorenzo the Magnificent, and the only child of Lorenzo de Medici, Duke 
 of Urbino by his marriage with a French heiress, Madeleine de la Tour 
 d'Auvergne. Within a year of their marriage, bridegroom and bride 
 were dead, and Catherine, brought up in the Convent of Le Murate at 
 Florence, became the ward, and, as it were, the niece par excellence of 
 the Papacy. She was the great-niece of Leo X., the second cousin 
 once removed of Clement VIL, so that the actual relationship was 
 slight, but as the only unmarried and legitimate daughter of the House 
 of Medici, the position of Catherine, under the Medici Popes, was 
 important. Through her mother, she inherited great possessions in 
 France, and these were often brought forward by King Francis and 
 his mother as a pretext for bringing up the little girl at the Court of 
 Paris. The second volume of Desjardin's "Diplomatic Negociations " 
 contains frequent reference to the childhood of the Duchessina: — 
 " The King and Madame implore she may be well-treated," writes 
 Carducci in 1529. "We told them it was impossible she could be better 
 treated than at present, for, was she not receiving her education at the 
 most respectable convent of Christendom — ^I mean the I\Iu7-ate of 
 Florence? . . . But they wish, with the Pope's good pleasure, to 
 have the Duchessina in their own hands, fearing the Pope will give her a 
 husband contrary to their interests — for they know how he holds to 
 keeping her in Italy, and they would like to marry her to a Frenchman." 
 The manuscript letters of Du Bellay (Bib. Nat., Paris, 3076, 3077, 
 3078, 3079 — 5147, 514S, 5149) show further light on the desire of Francis 
 and his mother to secure the little Duchess of Urbino. In the first place, 
 in 1529, Francis had revived his claims on Naples and Milan. We know 
 that in December he was in correspondence with the Emperor concerning 
 the Will of King Rene of Anjou, and the Marriage Contract of Valentine 
 Visconti. If the Emperor would not listen to reason, he was prepared to 
 try other means : Du Bellay in London was even then negotiating a Secret
 
 Prologzte. 67 
 
 to make likewise a Decameron, but yet in one thing 
 they will have it different from Boccaccio's — namely, 
 every history therein contained shall be the truth. And 
 their intent was that they, and his Highness with them, 
 should each make ten stories, and afterwards should 
 bring together ten persons whom they rated as most 
 capable of telling them ; but they would have no 
 schoolmen or practised men of books, for his Highness 
 must have nature and not art, and was in fear lest the 
 truth of the histories might fare badly through odd- 
 becoming tricks of rhetoric. But divers high affairs of 
 state, as the peace between the King and the King of 
 England, the bringing to bed of the Princess, and other 
 
 League between France, England, Hungary, Venice, and the Pope, 
 according to which the Pope was to receive Ravenna and Cervia from 
 Venice, and to depose the Emperor in the interest of France and 
 England. The Pope showed himself favourable to the League, yet 
 neither Wolsey nor Du Bellay felt sure of the shifty Clement. A 
 marriage between a French prince and Catherine de Medici would be 
 some sort of guarantee, and, moreover, Francis I., who meant to 
 bequeath his second son the French claims to Milan and to Naples, was 
 not blind to the value of Catherine's pretensions to Florence and Urbino. 
 There was also a plan to endow Madame Catherine with Piacenza, 
 Parma, and Leghorn. Here were abundant reasons for a marriage ; and, 
 as a matter of fact, in 1533 the Duchessina, then fourteen years old, and 
 a pretty, plump, merry, affectionate child, was married to Henri, Duke 
 of Orleans, the second and least-beloved son of Francis, a solemn, 
 romantic, and conventional young prince. 
 
 But it was not ordained that Catherine should ever be the Princess of 
 an Italian State. The king's negotiations came to nothing — " Aussi se 
 peut il dire qu'il a pris une fille comme toute nue pour bailler a son second 
 filz," laments du Bellay. The estrangement between France and England, 
 the murder of her half-brother at Florence, and the establishment there of 
 a distant branch of Medici, the death of Pope Clement — all these events 
 closely following on her marriage, made Catherine a less intrinsically im- 
 portant personage. Florence and Rome looked coldly on her now. But, 
 at the same time, the sudden death of the I3auphin raised her to a great 
 position in France; "la fille du Marchand," as Diane de Poitiers used
 
 68 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 matters of great consideration, have given all this 
 scheme to forgetfulness at Court ; but by reason of the 
 long delay we shall be able to accomplish it by the 
 ten days in which the bridge is to be brought to a com- 
 pletion. And if it please you, every day from noon to 
 four o'clock we will go to that pleasant meadow that is 
 stretched along the Gave, where so thickly do the trees 
 grow that the sun cannot pierce them through with his 
 heat. There, seated at our ease, let each of us tell 
 some story that he has either seen with his eyes or 
 heard from the lips of a faithful witness. At the end of 
 ten days we shall have summed up the hundred, and if 
 
 to call her, had become the wife of the heir to the throne. In this exalted 
 rank she was sorely out of place ; she, who would have been the best 
 possible wife for a French Duke of Milan or a French King of Naples, 
 was scarcely a fitting consort for the King of France. As time went on, 
 and, nine years after marriage, Catherine remained a childless woman, 
 rumours of a divorce grew and strengthened in the Court of France. 
 Her husband did not love her, she had no children, her kinsmen were 
 at present useless to the policy of France : Catherine had little on her 
 side. Yet she had one powerful ally. Diane de Poitiers, the Dauphin's 
 mistress, keen enough to perceive the danger to her own influence of a 
 more illustrious bride, and, also, as I imagine, drawn by a real attrac- 
 tion to the humble, gentle, neglected little Florentine, played the un- 
 expected part of her advocate. She drew the husband and his wife 
 together — " It is wonderful," writes the Venetian Ambassador Cavalli, 
 " how she has made another man of the Dauphin, who used not to love 
 his wife at all, but was vain and full of mockery." The reconciliation 
 was completed when, in January 1544, Catherine bore her husband a son 
 and heir. It is just at this moment that the Queen of Navarre heard her 
 niece Margaret and her niece-in-law Catherine project a new Decameron 
 under the supervision of the Dauphin. The not unhappy little domestic 
 picture indicated here is supported by the testimony of the Tuscan Am- 
 bassadors; they write in December 1544, " The Dauphine is all for study, 
 such a lady of letters, and so deeply read in Greek that every man is 
 abashed to witness so much learning in a woman. She is infinitely re- 
 spected by all, and by every one here she is cherished, favoured, adored, 
 and loved."
 
 Prologue. 69 
 
 God grants that our relations be pleasing to those lords 
 and ladies aforesaid, we will lay them at their feet on 
 our return from this journey in place of images or 
 paternosters, to which I am assured they will be greatly 
 preferred. Yet if any of you shall bring out a more 
 pleasant pastime than this, to him I will give my vote." 
 But all the company replied with one voice that than 
 this there could be nothing better, and that they were 
 weary for the morning to come, whereon to make a 
 beginning of it. 
 
 So was this day joyously passed, one telling to 
 another such notable things as he had seen in his life. 
 But as soon as the morning was come, they went to 
 the room of Oisille, whom they found at her prayers. 
 And when for a full hour they had attended to her 
 reading, and after this had devoutly heard mass, they 
 went to dinner, it being now ten o'clock. And at noon 
 they failed not, according to what had been determined, 
 to go to the meadow, which was of such a sort that it 
 would need Boccaccio himself to tell the pleasantness 
 of it ; but be you contented and know surely that never 
 was there meadow to vie with it. And when all this 
 company was seated in order on the grass, that was so 
 fine and soft that no need was there of rugs or carpet- 
 ing, Simontault began to say, " Who shall be the one 
 to rule over us .-* " To whom Hircan: " Since you were 
 the first to speak, it is fitting that you bear rule, for 
 in the game we are all equal." "God knows," said 
 Simontault, " that I would desire no bliss in the world 
 so much as to bear rule over this company." At this 
 speech of his, Parlamente told Simontault to begin ; 
 and this he did.
 
 DAY THE FIRST. 
 
 IN WHICH DAY ARE RECOUNTED THE BAD TURNS DONE BY 
 WOMEN TO MEN, AND BY MEN TO WOMEN. 
 
 NOVEL I. 
 
 The Misdeeds of the Wife of a certain Proctor, who had a 
 Bishop for her Gallant. 
 
 Fair ladies, I have had such a poor reward for all my 
 long service that, to avenge me on Love, and her whose 
 heart is so hard toward me, I am about to recount to 
 you the misdeeds done of women on us poor men ; and 
 I will tell you nothing but the whole truth. 
 
 In the town of Alengon, in the time of the last Duke 
 Charles, there was a proctor named St Aignan,^ who 
 
 ^ According to the "Letters of Remission" (Archives Nationales, J. 234, 
 No. 191), printed by ^L Le Roux de Lincy, this adventure must have 
 happened fifteen months after the death of Duke Charles ; for the letters 
 dated July 1526, speak of the murder as having happened in the current 
 month, but this must be through some clerical error, since we know from 
 Margaret's novel, that her husband was alive, and her brother in France 
 at the time of the murder. According to the document, Michel de St 
 Aignan, Seigneur de St Aignan, had lived somewhile in Alen9on with 
 honour and reputation. He had doubtless been attracted by the great 
 fame of the learned ducal court there, and, as the novel informs us, he 
 married a lady of the place. The St Aignans, an ancient and dis- 
 tinguished House, were lords of the fief and town of St Aignan in Touraine: 
 their hotel in Paris still exists ; one of the most beautiful of the many fine 
 old houses in the Rue du Temple. 
 
 One branch appears to have established itself at Alencon. In Maury 
 d'Oisille's "History of Seez," their name, and the silver shield with three 
 vine leaves, appears in the register of the nobility of Alencon.
 
 Day the First. Ji 
 
 had for wife a gentlewoman of the country. And she, 
 having more beauty than virtue, and being of a fickle 
 disposition, was courted by the Bishop of Seez,^ who 
 for a long while courted this evil woman, who received 
 him not for the love she bore him, but because her 
 husband, being greedy of money, so commanded her. 
 But her love she gave to a young man of Alengon, son 
 of the lieutenant-general, and him she loved to mad- 
 ness; often obtaining of the Bishop to send her husband 
 away, that she might see Du Mesnil, the son of the 
 lieutenant, at her ease. And this fashion of life lasted 
 long ; while she loved the Bishop for profit, and Du 
 
 1 Jacques de Silly, 6oth Bishop of Seez, occupied that See from 15 12 
 till 1539, when he was succeeded by Nicolas Dangu, the Dagoucin of 
 the Heptameron. Jacques de Silly, brother of Francois de Silly, Seigneur 
 de Lonray, was the brother-in-law of Longarine. Perhaps a family 
 quarrel excused to some extent the bad taste of Parlamente in permitting 
 Simontault to open her cycle of stories with so keen a homethrust at 
 one of her companions. It is true that in the original edition of les 
 Amans Fortunez, the names of the Bishop and Dumaisnil are not men- 
 tioned, but every hearer of the tale was naturally familiar with the 
 personages of this adventure. In the lifetime of Marguerite de Lorraine, 
 this Bishop of Seez had enjoyed a great prestige at the Ducal Court. He 
 was a man of the world as well as a priest, and had been a Prothonotary 
 before he entered Holy Orders. None the less his piety was edifying 
 and exemplary. He introduced a severe and reforming spirit among his 
 clergy ; he disciplined the scandalous convent of the Benedictine nuns of 
 Almaneches (whose corruption in 15 17 aroused even Leo X. to speak in 
 protest) ; he added to the Cathedral at Seez— the little Episcopal city 
 midway between Alen9on and Argentan ; he set magnificent stained glass 
 in the windows, and provided a service of silver for the altar ; he built 
 a new presbytery for his curates, and markets and churches for the poor ; 
 he consecrated and set in order the convents opened by the pious mother 
 of Duke Charles. He was a scholar, and an edition of the Letters of 
 Pico della Mirandola was dedicated to him. He was, in short, in all 
 outer things, a wise, excellent, and liberal churchman, exemplary in 
 every relation of life. Here we behold him as the offending, yet passive 
 and unconscious, occasion of a terrible crime.
 
 72 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 Mesnil for pleasure, and telling the last that all the 
 pleasure she did the Bishop was only words, and these 
 were for his sake. 
 
 One day when her husband had to go on some 
 charges of the Bishop, she asked him to let her go into 
 the country, saying that the town air w^as hurtful to 
 her ; and having got to her farmstead, she straightway 
 wrote to Du Mesnil, enjoining him not to fail in coming 
 to her at nine in the evening. This the poor gallant 
 did ; but at the porch he found the maid who was wont 
 to let him in, who thus addressed him: "Go farther, 
 friend, for here your place is taken." And he, thinking 
 the proctor was come, asked her how they fared. The 
 serving-maid, having pity on him, for that he loved so 
 much, and was so little loved in return, and seeing, 
 moreover, that he was comely, young, and of an honour- 
 able address, showed to him the frailty of her mistress, 
 believing that when he heard this the flame of his love 
 would be somewhat quenched. And she told him how 
 the Bishop of Seez was there. Who then was in despair 
 but Du Mesnil ! yet scarcely could he believe the tale, 
 and hid himself in a house hard by, where, remaining 
 till three hours after midnight, he then saw the Bishop 
 come out, not so well disguised but that he Avas more 
 easily recognized than he desired. 
 
 And in this despair he made his way back to Alengon, 
 whither this evil woman having returned, she came to 
 speak to him, and would fain have fooled him in her 
 old fashion. But he told her that she was too good, 
 since she was so well acquainted with holy things, to 
 speak to a poor sinner like himself, whose repentance, 
 nevertheless, was so great that he hoped ere long his 
 sin would be forgiven. So when she perceived that her
 
 Day the First. J2> 
 
 case was known to him, and that excuses, oaths, and 
 promises availed nothing, she made complaint of him 
 to her Bishop, And after having well pondered the 
 matter with him, this woman came to her husband and 
 told him that she could no longer live in Alencon, since 
 the son of the lieutenant, whom he had accounted for a 
 friend, did incessantly lay assault to her honour, where- 
 fore she entreated him to take her to Argentan, to do 
 away with all suspicion. To this her husband, who let 
 himself be ruled by her, agreed. But they had been 
 but a short while at Argentan when this evil one sent 
 to Du Mesnil, saying that of all men in the world he 
 was most wicked, and that she was well advised of his 
 publicly speaking ill of her and the Bishop of Seez, for 
 which she would labour to call him to account.^ 
 
 ^ A very different and, I think, a finer version of this story is given in 
 the "Letters of Remission." According to that document, Michel de St 
 Aignan was an honourable, unsuspecting, and noble-hearted man, who 
 being impressed with the cleverness of Jacques Dumaisnil, a young man 
 of lower rank belonging to the professional class, secured him every 
 advantage in his power, treated him as a loyal and an equal friend, and 
 hoped to marry him to one of his kinswomen. Meanwhile, Jacques 
 Dumaisnil courted the wife of his benefactor, who had always lived with 
 her "en bonne, grande, et parfaicte amour." This was over now. 
 Dumaisnil persuaded St Aignan's wife that her husband did not love her, 
 that, indeed, he even desired her death. When St Aignan was out of 
 doors, Dumaisnil would say — "How happy we two are together ! We 
 might be passing happy, if he were always out." Or he would pity her 
 for being left too much alone : ' ' You ought to have had a husband who 
 would stay with you and cheer you and protect you ! " Gradually, he 
 accustomed his unhappy mistress — for by this time she had become his 
 mistress — to the idea of St Aignan's murder and their subsequent 
 marriage. But at Easter, St Aignan having gained some acquaintance 
 with the truth of the matter through the confession of Madame de St 
 Aignan's chambermaid, forbade his treacherous friend to visit at his 
 house. None the less Dumaisnil was often seen prowling about the 
 doors and garden of the Hotel de St Aignan ; and St Aignan, determined
 
 74 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 The young man, who had spoken to her alone on the 
 matter, yet fearing to get into disfavour with the Bishop, 
 went forthwith to Argentan with two of his servants, 
 and found his mistress at evensong at the Jacobins. 
 He, kneehng by her side, spoke thus: "Mistress, I am 
 come to this place to swear to you before God that I 
 have spoken against your honour to no one save you 
 yourself; and so evilly have you entreated me that 
 what I told you was not the half of what you deserved. 
 And if there be man or woman who will say that I have 
 so spoken, here am I to give them the lie before your 
 face." She, seeing that much folk were in the church, 
 and that he had for companions two stout serving-men, 
 constrained herself to speak to him in the most gracious 
 sort she could, saying she made no manner of doubt but 
 that he spoke the truth, and that she esteemed him too 
 honourable to speak evil of any man, much less of her 
 who had for him so great a love ; but some tales had 
 got to her husband's ears, on which account she would 
 have him make declaration before her husband, that he 
 had not told them, and believed them not at all. This 
 he freely granted, and thinking to accompany her home, 
 he would have taken her by the arm, but she told him 
 that it would not be well for him to come with her, 
 since her husband might suppose she had put the words 
 into his mouth. And taking one of his servants by the 
 sleeve of his doublet, she said, " Leave this man with 
 me, and when it is time I will presently send him for 
 
 to secure his wife's honour, took her to live with him at Argentan, ten 
 leagues away. But often the desperate Dumaisnil would ride so far to 
 see his mistress. And one day when he chanced to meet the nurse with 
 St Aignan's child, he exclaimed to the terrified woman: " I will kill 
 your master if I die for it !"
 
 Day the First. 75 
 
 you, but meanwhile do you go and rest in your lodging." 
 And he, who knew not that she conspired against him, 
 did as he was ordered. 
 
 To the servant she had taken with her, she gave 
 supper, and when he often asked her if it was not time 
 to look for his master, she told him that the hour would 
 shortly come. And when night had fallen she privily 
 sent one of her own serving-men to seek Du Mesnil, 
 who, not knowing the evil that was to befall him, went 
 with bold face to the house of the aforesaid St Aignan, 
 where his mistress still kept his servant, so that he had 
 only one with him. And when he came to the door of 
 the house, the man who had brought him told him the 
 lady wished much to speak with him before he came 
 into the presence of her husband, and that she awaited 
 him in a room with only his own servant with her,^ and 
 that he would do well to send the other to the door in 
 front. This he did, and whilst he was going up a small 
 and gloomy stair, the proctor, who had laid an ambush 
 in a closet, hearing the noise of his steps, called out, 
 " What is that } " And they told him that it was a man 
 privily endeavouring to enter his house. Whereupon a 
 fellow called Thomas Guerin,^ an assassin by trade, 
 
 ^ Here again the story of the document differs from the novel. The 
 letters declare that on the 8th of July Dumaisnil, in the company of two 
 young men, quitted Alen9on. They set out at two or three in the morn- 
 ing, " heure suspecte," and Dumaisnil was disguised out of his own rank 
 in a shabby white pardessus and feathered hat. Arrived at Argentan, they 
 hid themselves all day in the suburbs at the Sign of Our Lady. But at 
 eleven o'clock at night Dumaisnil sallied forth, still in his disguise, and 
 armed with a club ; and finding the means to enter the house of St 
 Aignan unsuspected in the darkness, he contrived to hide himself in a 
 lofty dressing-closet opening out of the bedroom of St Aignan and his 
 wife. 
 
 - Here again the stories differ. According to the document, St Aignan,
 
 "jd The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 who to this Intent had been hired by St Aignan, rushed 
 forth and dealt the young man such blows with his 
 sword that, for all the defence he might make, he fell 
 dead between their hands. His servant who was with 
 the lady said to her, " I hear my master talking on the 
 stairs, and will go to him." But she held him back, 
 saying, " Be not troubled, he will shortly be here." And 
 a little after, hearing these words in his master's voice, 
 " I am gone, and may God receive my soul," he would 
 fain have succoured him. But she held him back, say- 
 ing, " Be not troubled, my husband does but chastise 
 him for these follies of his youth ; come, let us go and 
 see what is being done." And leaning against the 
 balustrade of the stairs, she asked of her husband, " Is 
 it finished .'' " And he said to her, " Come and see, for 
 
 quite ignorant of the arrival of Dumaisnil, was seated in the hall settling 
 some affairs with a certain Maitre Thomas Guerin, "qui estoit venu pour 
 ses affaires." While talking with this man, St Aignan sent his servant 
 Colas upstairs to fetch some trifle out of the dressing-room. But no sooner 
 had Colas opened the door than Dumaisnil rushed at him, naked sword in 
 hand. There was the sound of a scuffle along the stairs and passages. 
 "To the rescue !" shouted St Aignan. "It must be a robber. Who 
 has the right to come here so late ? " In a little court near the stable 
 St Aignan discovered Colas fighting a man in a white coat, who struck 
 at him with a club. He did not recognise the young man in this disguise, 
 but when Dumaisnil found himself suddenly confronted with this second 
 adversary, he cried out, "Murder! confession!" and St Aignan recog- 
 nised the voice, " merveilleusement perplex, esbahy et courrosse." Then 
 wrath got the better of reason, and, out of his senses, St Aignan thrust 
 once or twice at his foe, covering him the while with bitter reproaches. 
 All at once, " 'Tis true ! 'tis too true ! Pardon !" cried Dumaisnil, and 
 dropped down dead. St Aignan, stupefied with horror, stood motion- 
 less, regarding the corpse of the man who once had been his friend. 
 "What shall we do with the body?" cried the practical Colas. St 
 Aignan started : he went to his wife's room and found her in bed and 
 asleep. " Bury it in consecrated ground, or put it out in the street," he 
 said. But Colas chose to bury the body in secret.
 
 Day the First. 77 
 
 in this hour I have avenged you on him who has done 
 you so much shame." So saying he gave with his 
 dagger ten or twelve strokes into the body of him whom, 
 when alive, he durst not have encountered. 
 
 After that the murder was done, and the two servants 
 had fled to carry the news to the poor father, the afore- 
 said St Aignan considered how the thing might best be 
 kept secret, and perceived that the two servants could 
 not be admitted to bear witness, and that none in his 
 house had seen it done, save the murderers, an old 
 serving-woman, and a young girl of fifteen. The old 
 woman he was fain privily to put away, but she, finding 
 means to escape, took refuge in the liberties of the 
 Jacobins.^ And her witness was the best on the matter 
 of the murder. The young girl stayed some days in his 
 house, but he, having caused one of the murderers to 
 bribe her, put her in an evil house in Paris, to the end 
 that her witness might not be received. And, better to 
 hide the murder, he had the body of the dead man burnt ; 
 and the bones which the fire had not consumed he made 
 mingle with the mortar that was being used in building. 
 This done he sent letters with great speed to court 
 to ask for pardon,^ letting it be understood that he had 
 many times forbidden a man whom he suspected to enter 
 his house. And this man, who would have dishonoured 
 his wife notwithstanding that he was forbidden, had 
 
 ^ Criminals might still take refuge in sanctuary : yet, by starving them 
 out, the ends of justice were secured. Women of ill fame could not bear 
 witness in a court of justice. 
 
 - These are obviously the "Letters of Remission" which I have so 
 often quoted. I have only seen the transcript by M. Le Roux de Lincy, 
 and I cannot but think he has misread the date 1526 for 1520, 152 1, 
 1522, or 1523, at which time Charles was still alive, and the king was 
 in Paris.
 
 7 8 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 come secretly by night to speak to her, wherefore having 
 found him at the door of her room, and wrath casting 
 out reason, he had slain him. But for all his haste he 
 was not able to dispatch this letter to the chancellor's 
 before the Duke and Duchess, who had been advised of 
 what had taken place by the father of the murdered 
 man, likewise sent to the chancellor, that pardon might 
 not be granted him. Then, St Aignan, seeing that he 
 could not obtain pardon, fled beyond seas to England, 
 and his wife with him, and many of his kinsfolk. Yet 
 before he set out, he made known to the murderer who 
 had dealt the blow that he had seen express letters 
 from the King, to take him and put him to death. 
 And since, in return for the service he had done him 
 he would gladly save his life, he gave him ten crowns 
 for him to fly the realm. This he did, and has not been 
 found to this day. 
 
 This murder was so confirmed by the servants of the 
 dead man, by the old woman who had fled to the 
 Jacobins, and by the bones which were found in the 
 mortar, that the case was begun and brought to an end 
 in the absence of St Aignan and his wife. Judgment 
 went by default, they were condemned to death, to pay 
 fifteen hundred crowns to the father of the murdered 
 man, and the rest of their goods were escheated to the 
 crown. St Aignan, seeing that though he was living 
 in England, in France the law accounted him dead, 
 accomplished so much by his services to some great 
 lords, and by the favour of the kinsfolk of his wife, that 
 the King of England entreated the King of France to 
 grant him a free pardon,^ and to restore to him his 
 
 1 This passage makes me think that the real date of the flight 
 of St Aignan must have been the autumn of 1520, when, in the sudden
 
 Day the First. 79 
 
 goods and his offices. But the King of France being 
 assured of the enormity of his crime, sent the case to 
 the King of England, asking him if such a deed de- 
 served pardon, and saying that to the Duke of Alencon 
 alone it pertained to grant pardon for offences done in 
 his duchy.^ But for all these excuses he could not 
 satisfy the King of England, \vho so earnestly entreated 
 him that at last the proctor gained what he desired 
 and returned to his home. And there, to fill up the 
 measure of his wickedness, he called to him a wizard, 
 named Gallery, hoping by this means to escape the 
 paying of the fifteen hundred crowns to the father of 
 the dead man. 
 
 And to this end, he and his wife with him, went up 
 to Paris in disguise. And she, perceiving him closeted 
 for a long while with the enchanter Gallery, and not 
 being told the reason of this, on one morning played 
 the spy and saw Gallery showing to him five wooden 
 images," of which three had their hands hanging down, 
 
 intimacy that followed on the Field of the Cloth of Gold, many French 
 nobles (among others Francois de Bourdeilles, the Simontault who tells 
 this tale) visited the Court of London. In that moment of rapprochement, 
 Francis would be inclined to favour any request of Henry VIII.; but from 
 the end of 1522 until the summer of 1525, suspicion and hostility divided 
 Prance from England. The date of 1526 given by M. Le Roux de Lincy, 
 is certainly one of intimate confidence between the French and English 
 Courts ; but at that time the Duke of Alencon was dead, and beyond the 
 necromancy of the deftest wizard. 
 
 ^ France was still less an organized monarchy than a confederacy of 
 many petty sovereigns. Every great noble had power of life and death 
 in his dominions. In the XXXIIIrd Novel, the Court of Angouleme 
 adjudges a priest and his sister to the flames. Here as we see, the King 
 of France avows himself powerless in Alencon. 
 
 - Throughout the entire course of the XVIth century in France, the 
 dread and fear of witches remains a constant symptom. In 1572, according 
 to the "Journal de Henry III.," there were 30,000 sorcerers in Paris.
 
 So The Foj'tunate Lovers. 
 
 and of the two others the hands were raised. And she 
 heard the wizard : " We must have images made of 
 wax Hke these, and they that have the hands drooping 
 shall be made in the likeness of those that are to die, 
 but they that have the hands uplifted shall be made in 
 the likeness of those whose love and favour we desire." 
 To whom the proctor : "This one shall be for the King 
 whose grace I would gain, and this for my Lord 
 Brinon,^ the chancellor of Alengon." And Gallery 
 said to him, " We must lay these images beneath the 
 altar, where they may hear mass, together with the 
 words that you shall presently say after me." And 
 speaking of them that had the drooping arms, the 
 proctor said that one should be Master Gilles du Mesnil, 
 father of him who was murdered, for he knew well that 
 as long as he was alive he would not cease from pur- 
 suing him. And another, that was made in the likeness 
 of a woman, should be for my lady the Duchess of 
 Alen^on, the sister of the King ; since so well did she 
 love Du Mesnil, her old servant, and had so great a 
 knowledge of the proctor's wickedness in other matters, 
 that unless she died, he could not live. And the last 
 image, that was also made in the likeness of a woman, 
 should be his wife, since she was the beginning of all 
 his evil hap, and he knew well that she would never 
 amend the wickedness of her ways. But when this wife 
 
 From time to time one was burned ; but a trade so productive of gold and 
 power was not easily abandoned. In 1589, after the murder of the 
 Guises, the people of Paris placed on the altars of their churches waxen 
 models of the King, and they planted these images with knives and 
 daggers. 
 
 ^ Jean Erinon was the first President of the Parliament at Rouen. 
 The Bourgeois of Paris records of him : " He was a most honourable man, 
 a good judge, and much esteemed for his science and his churchmanship." 
 A few years later, it became difficult to reconcile these two aims.
 
 Day the First. 8 1 
 
 of his, who saw through a chink in the door all that was 
 done, heard that she was numbered among the dead, it 
 was her humour to send her husband on before her. 
 And pretending to go and borrow money of an uncle 
 of hers, named Neaufle, Master of Requests to the 
 Duke of Alen^on, she told him of her husband, and all 
 that she had seen and heard him do. This Neaufle 
 aforesaid, like a good old servant, went forthwith to the 
 chancellor of the Duchy of Alengon, and showed him 
 the whole of the matter. And since the Duke and 
 Duchess chanced not to be at court on that day, the 
 chancellor went and told this strange case to the 
 Regent, mother of the King and of the Duchess,^ 
 who straightway sought out La Barre, Provost of 
 Paris ; ^ and such good diligence did he make that he 
 clapped up the proctor and his wizard Gallery, who 
 confessed freely the crime, without being put to the 
 question,'^ or in any way constrained. And the matter 
 of their accusation was made out and brought to the 
 King, whereupon some, willing to save the lives of 
 these men, would fain persuade him that by their 
 
 ^ The Regent-Mother. It is difficult to reconcile the dates of this 
 novel. Louisa of Savoy was Regent in 1515, and again in the end 
 of 1523. Charles, Duke of Alen^on, died on the nth April 1525; and 
 at this time France and England were enemies, though immediately 
 after the Battle of Pavia, the tide of English politics began to turn to 
 France. 
 
 - Jean de La Barre was never Provost of Paris during the life of 
 Charles of Alen9on. Bailie of Paris in 1522, he was made prisoner with 
 Francis at Pavia in February 1525 ; he was raised to the office of Provost 
 in May 1526. It is obvious that, in narrating this story after an interval 
 of many years, Margaret has either forgotten that her husband was already 
 dead at the date of the event, or has credited her mother and La Barre 
 with honours which at that time they did not possess. The latter theory 
 appears more plausible to me. 
 
 2 Torture ^^■as, of course, still considered a legitimate means of justice. 
 
 F
 
 82 The Fortimate Lovers. 
 
 enchantments they sought nothing but his grace. But 
 the King, being as tender of his sister's life as of his 
 own/ commanded that sentence should be given as if 
 they had attempted his own peculiar person. Never- 
 theless, the Duchess of Alengon made entreaty for the 
 life of this proctor, and for the doom of death to be 
 changed to some other punishment. So this was 
 granted her, and the proctor, together with the wizard, 
 were sent to the galleys of St Blancart at Marseilles,- 
 where they ended their days in captivity, having time 
 wherein to consider their sins, how great they had been. 
 And the wife, when her husband was removed, sinned 
 more wickedly than before, and so died miserably. 
 
 " I entreat you, ladies, consider well the evil that 
 Cometh of a wicked woman, and how many mishaps 
 proceeded from the sin of this one I have told you of. 
 You will find that from the time Eve made Adam to 
 sin, all women have been for the torturing, killing, and 
 damnation of men. As for me, such an experience 
 have I of their cruelty that I am well assured that 
 
 ' In fact a few years later (in the affair of Beda and the accusation of 
 heresy which that fanatic 'Varsity Professor brought against the modern- 
 minded Queen of Navarre), Francis showed liimself more stern in con- 
 demning the calumniators of his sister than his own. Between the 
 brother, mother, and sister there existed a quite peculiar affection. 
 " Scrivere a Luisa di Savoia," said Cardinal Bibliena, with the witty 
 impiety of the Italian churchman. "Scrivere a Luisa di Savoiae come 
 scrivere alia Stessa Trinita." Margaret liked and adopted this phrase, 
 and her poems abound with references to this terrestrial Trinity of Francis, 
 Louisa, and herself. 
 
 - Bernard d'Ormezan, Baron de St Blancart, was Admiral of the 
 Levantine seas, Conservator of the Port of Aigues-Mortes, and in 1521, 
 General of the King's galleys. It was he who in 1525 conveyed Margaret 
 to Spain. In that year the great importance of a good French fleet in 
 the Mediterranean, caused thirteen new galleys to be built in Marseilles. 
 P'our of these were for the service of St Blancart.
 
 Day the First. 83 
 
 when I meet with death and damnation, it will be 
 through despair of her whom I love. Yet so besotted 
 am I, that I must needs confess that this hell delights 
 me more coming from her hand than would heaven 
 from the hand of another." Parlamente, feigning not 
 to understand that it was of her that he made this dis- 
 course, said to him : " Since this hell of yours is as 
 pleasant as you say, it skills not to fear the devil who 
 sends it." But wrathfully he replied to her : " If my 
 devil should become visible as black as it has made me 
 unhappy, this company would be struck with as great 
 fear as my delight is in regarding it, but the fire of my 
 love makes me to forget the fire of my hell. So to 
 speak no more of this matter, I will give my vote to 
 Mistress Oisille to tell the second novel, and sure am I, 
 that if she would tell that she knows of women, she 
 would be of my opinion." Instantly the company 
 turned toward her, praying her to make a beginning. 
 To this she agreed, and smiling began thus : 
 
 " It seems to me, ladies, that he who has given his 
 vote to me has made such an ill report of women by 
 this true story of a woman who was exceedingly wicked, 
 that I shall have to call to mind all these old years of 
 mine, to find one woman whose virtue shall give the 
 lie to his judgment. And since there is come into my 
 mind the recollection of a woman well worthy of being 
 had in everlasting remembrance, I will tell you her 
 history."
 
 84 The Forttuiate Lovers. 
 
 NOVEL II. 
 
 The Wife of a Muleteer had rathe}' Death than Disho7ioiir. 
 
 In the town of Amboise there was a muleteer who 
 served the Queen of Navarre, sister to Francis the First. 
 And she being at Blois ^ brought to bed of a son, this 
 muleteer went thither to be paid such monies as were 
 owing to him, and his wife stayed at Amboise, being 
 lodged in a house beyond the bridge. Now there was 
 a servant of her husband who had for a long while 
 loved her so greatly, that one day he must needs speak 
 his mind to her. But she, being a woman of true 
 virtuousness, so sharply reproved him, threatening that 
 he should be beaten and sent away, that never after 
 did he dare to address her. But he secretly kept the 
 fire of lust in his heart, until one day when his master 
 was abroad, and his mistress at evensong in the castle 
 church of St Florentin, no short distance from her 
 house. So, since she was living alone, he conceived 
 the humour of taking by force that which he could 
 obtain by none of his prayers or good offices, to which 
 end he broke the boards that were between his room 
 and that of his mistress. And this was not perceived 
 when she, having with her a wench of eleven or twelve 
 years, came to her room, by reason of the curtains that 
 were hung by the master's bed on one side, and the 
 servant's on the other. And when the poor woman 
 was in her first sleep, the fellow came in by the hole he 
 
 ^ In the year 1530. This was Margaret's only son, the little Prince 
 Jean de Viane. In the same year he died at Alen9on, when Margaret, 
 in the mood of exalted resignation with which she ever confronted sorrow, 
 caused great placards to be set on all the walls of Alen^on, bearing the 
 text : " God has given, and God has taken away."
 
 Day the First. 85 
 
 had made, clad only in his shirt, and with a drawn 
 sword in his hand. And he whose love was but beastly- 
 lust, better able to understand the braying of his mules 
 than fair conclusions, showed himself more brutal than 
 the brutes he had a long while tended ; for seeing that 
 so swiftly did she chase round a table that he could 
 not take her, and that she had twice escaped from his 
 very hands, he struck her with his sword, hoping to gain 
 from pain and weakness what he had not gained from 
 fear. Yet it had a contrary effect, for like a good soldier 
 who, when he sees his blood flowing, is stirred up all the 
 more to be avenged on his enemies, and gain for him- 
 self glory, so her chaste heart made her fly yet more 
 swiftly from the hands of this wretch, making still more 
 earnest entreaty to him, if haply he might see the wicked- 
 ness of his purpose. But in such furious case was he, that 
 to nothing of this would he give ear, and aimed at her 
 more and more blows, to avoid Avhich she still kept 
 running as fast as she was able. And when, by reason 
 of loss of blood, she felt death to be near at hand, she 
 raised her eyes to heaven, and with clasped hands gave 
 thanks to God, calling upon Him as her strength, her 
 virtuousness, her long-suffering, and her purity ; be- 
 seeching Him to favourably accept that blood of hers 
 which she had poured forth for the sake of His Son, by 
 whom she steadfastly believed all her sins were blotted 
 out from His sight. And " Lord receive my soul," 
 she said, " which by thy loving-kindness hath been 
 redeemed," and fell on her face to the floor, where this 
 villain gave her several strokes, and her tongue having 
 lost speech and her body strength, he took that from 
 her which she was no more able to defend against 
 him.
 
 86 The FortiLuate Lovers. 
 
 And afterwards he fled forth in such hot haste that 
 all pursuit was of no avail, for he was never found. 
 The young maid who had been sleeping with the 
 muleteer's wife had, for the fear she was in, hidden 
 under the bed, but when she saw that the man was 
 departed, she went to her mistress, and finding in her 
 no speech or movement, called from the window to the 
 neighbours to bring help. They, holding her in as 
 good love and repute as any woman in the town, came 
 presently to her, bringing with them chirurgeons, who 
 made out that she had on her body five-and-twenty 
 mortal wounds. All the aid they could give her was 
 of no avail, and yet for more than an hour she lan- 
 guished on, showing by the signs she made with her 
 eyes and hands, that she knew what was passing. 
 Being asked by the priest in what faith she died, she 
 gave answer by signs as plain as words, that she put 
 the hope of her salvation in Jesus only ; ^ and so with 
 glad countenance, and eyes lifted up to heaven, she 
 gave up her soul and body to the Creator. And when 
 she was being taken out for burial, the company 
 thereto appointed attending, her poor husband came 
 up, and saw the body of his wife in front of his house 
 before tidings had been brought to him that she was 
 dead. And the manner of her death being reported to 
 
 ^ It was for such a phrase as this, " in Jesus only," repeated in the de- 
 votional poem " Le Myrouer de I'Ame Pecheresse," pubHshed at Alen- 
 9on in 1530, that, inspired by Beda, the Doctors of the Sorbonne accused 
 Queen Margaret of heresy. They declared that the expression "salvation 
 in Jesus only," denied by impHcation the intercession of the Saints and 
 Mary. The moment was critical; for heresy in 1530 was an unpopular 
 crime. But King Francis, indignant at the impertinence of these fanatic 
 pedants, made them eat their words, and sent the fiery Beda to cool his 
 zeal in the oozy dungeons of Mont St Michel. Thus, by a sudden turn, 
 we behold the Inquisitor as martyr — for (whether of rage or rheumatism) 
 in prison Beda died.
 
 Day the First. 87 
 
 him, he had then a double cause for lamentation, which 
 he made in such grievous sort that he was well-nigh 
 amort. So was this martyr of chastity buried in the 
 church of St Florentin, and at the burial of her all the 
 honourable women of the town failed not to do her 
 honour by their presence ; thinking it no small thing 
 to live in a place which had contained so virtuous a 
 woman. And, moreover, such women as were queans 
 determined to live henceforth in amendment of life. 
 
 " Behold then, ladies, a true relation, by the con- 
 sideration of which we should be enabled to guard 
 yet more straitly this excellent virtue of chastity. And 
 we, being of gentle blood, should die with shame on 
 feeling in our hearts that worldly lust, to avoid which 
 the wife of a poor muleteer did not shrink from a cruel 
 death. And let not any one esteem herself a virtuous 
 woman Avho has not like this one resisted unto death. 
 Wherefore we must humble ourselves, for God giveth 
 not Plis grace to men for that they are of gentle blood 
 and have great riches, but only according to His good 
 will. For He is no regarder of persons, but chooseth 
 whom He will, and him, whom He hath chosen. He 
 filleth with all goodness. And often He chooseth the 
 lowly, that He may confound those that are in great 
 esteem with this world, according as it is written, * Let 
 us not rejoice for our merits, but rather that our names 
 are written in the book of life.' " 
 
 Not one lady was there in that company who did 
 
 not weep for the pitiful and glorious death of this 
 
 woman ; each one resolving within herself that, if like 
 
 case were to come to her she would strive likewise to 
 
 gain martyrdom. 
 
 ******
 
 SS The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 But Dagoucin, who hitherto had kept silence, fell to 
 the praise of good women, and wondered that any man 
 possessing one should desert her (as, none the less, it 
 often happens), for fickleness is well worthy of blame. 
 Simontault said to this : " But what do you say as to 
 those who have not found their other half? Call you 
 it fickleness to seek every quarter, if haply they may 
 find it ? " " Ay, verily I do, and for this reason — that 
 man knoweth not where to look for this other half, with 
 whom there is such perfect union that the one differs 
 not from the other. Wherefore love should be stead- 
 fastly fixed, and in whatever hap, change not its heart 
 or inclination, for if she whom you love is like to your- 
 self, so that there is but one will between you, then it 
 is yourself you love and not her." "Dagoucin," said 
 Hircan, " this position of yours is false, as if we should 
 bear love to women by whom we are not beloved." 
 " My intent is," answered Dagoucin, " to maintain that 
 when love is founded merely upon the beauty, gracious 
 ways, or wealth of a woman, and our aim be only 
 pleasure, honour, or profit, that love will not long 
 endure. For, when that upon which we found our love 
 becomes wanting, the love itself perishes. But I am 
 steadfast in my opinion, that he who loves, and desires 
 nothing better than to love with a perfect love, will 
 cling to this love while his soul clings to his body." 
 " Pardy," said Simontault, " I cannot believe that you 
 have ever been in love, for if you had felt this fire like 
 other men, you would not treat us in this fashion with 
 a Republic like Plato's, that has life only on paper." 
 " Not so," said Dagoucin, " I have loved, do still love, 
 and while I live, will love. But I have so great a fear 
 lest, when I make manifest this love, I thereby do
 
 Day the First. 89 
 
 injustice to its perfection, that I conceal it even from 
 
 her of whom I desire a like return. Hardly indeed do 
 
 I suffer it to enter my thoughts, lest my eyes make 
 
 revelation of it, for so much the more that I keep this 
 
 fire hidden out of sight, so the more earnestly do I 
 
 delight to know that it is perfect and without stain." 
 
 " Yet," said Geburon, " I am well assured that to be 
 
 loved in return would not be to your misliking." " This 
 
 I acknowledge, but since my love is not lessened for 
 
 that it is not returned, so it would not be increased if it 
 
 were returned." Whereupon Parlamente, who held this 
 
 fantasy in small favour, said : " Take care, Dagoucin, 
 
 for I have seen others beside you who had rather die 
 
 than speak." " These, mistress," answered Dagoucin, 
 
 "I deem exceeding happy." "Even so," said Saffra- 
 
 dent, " and well deserving a place among the Innocents, 
 
 of whom the church sings : Non loquendo^ sed moriendo 
 
 confessi sunt. I have heard much of these feeble lovers, 
 
 but never yet stood I at the deathbed of one of them. 
 
 And since I have come scot-free from all my dolors, 
 
 I believe not that another man will die of such woes." 
 
 " How then," said Dagoucin, " do you expect to be 
 
 loved .'' But lovers of your sort need never fear death. 
 
 Yet have I known many an one to whom death came 
 
 by no sickness but love." " Since you are advised of 
 
 such," said Longarine, " I give you my vote for the 
 
 telling some pleasant story that shall be the ninth 
 
 novel." " To the intent," he replied, " that your faith 
 
 may be confirmed by signs and miracles, I will tell you 
 
 an authentic history, which came to pass not three 
 
 years ago."
 
 go The Foj'tunatc Lovers. 
 
 NOVEL IX. 
 
 A relation of a perfect Love, and the pitiful end thereof 
 
 In the coasts of Dauphine and Provence there lived a 
 gentleman whose riches stood rather in virtuousness, a 
 brave address, and an honourable heart, than in gold or 
 worldly gear. And he loved a maid, as to whose name 
 I will say nothing, since she came of a most illustrious 
 house ; but be you none the less assured that my tale is 
 the whole truth. And since he came not of such gentle 
 blood as she, he was unwilling to declare his love to 
 her, since his affection was so perfect that he would 
 rather die than cause her any dishonour. So perceiving 
 that, compared with her, he was of low estate, he had 
 no hope of marrying her. Wherefore his love was 
 founded upon this and this alone — to love her with all 
 his whole might ; and this he did, and for so long a 
 time that at last she was advised thereof And seeing 
 that the love he bore her was honourable, and bore 
 fruit in seemly and virtuous talk, she was well pleased 
 to be loved by such an one, and carried herself so 
 graciously toward him that he, who hoped for nothing 
 better, was well contented therein. But malice, that 
 suffers no one of us to be at rest, could not leave this 
 goodly manner of living in peace, for certain ones must 
 needs ero tell the mother that it was matter of astonish- 
 ment to them that this gentleman was made of such 
 account in her house, that it was common talk that the 
 daughter brought him there, and that she had often been 
 seen to talk with him. The mother, who had no more 
 doubt as to this gentleman's honour than that of her 
 own children, was much troubled to hear his presence
 
 Day the First. 9 1 
 
 was taken in bad part, so that at last, fearing the 
 scandalous tongues of men, she entreated him that for 
 some while he would come no more to her house as 
 his custom had been. And this he found tough 
 matter of digestion, knowing that the honest talk he 
 had with the maid deserved not this estrangement. 
 All the same, to shut evil mouths, he kept away 
 for some time, till the rumour was hushed, and 
 then went as before, his love being in no wise 
 lessened by absence. But one day, being in the 
 house, he heard some talk of marrying his mistress 
 to a gentleman who was not so rich as to rightly carry 
 this point over him. So he forthv>'ith took heart, and 
 began to use his friends' offices on his behalf, thinking 
 that if the lady had to choose he would be preferred. 
 But the mother and kinsfolk chose the other man, be- 
 cause he had the greater wealth, at which the poor 
 gentleman took so much despair, knowing his sweet- 
 heart to be as much grieved as himself, that little by 
 little, without any sickness, he began to consume away, 
 and in a short time was so much changed that he 
 seemed to have covered the beauty of his face with the 
 mask of death, whither hour by hour he was joyously 
 hastening. 
 
 Yet he could not restrain himself from going to speak 
 as often as might be with her he loved so well. But at 
 last, since his strength failed him, he was constrained 
 to keep to his bed, not wishing his mistress to be 
 advertised of this lest she too should have part in 
 his woe. And giving himself up to melancholy and 
 despair, he left off both drinking and eating, sleep and 
 rest, in such sort that for the wasting away of his coun- 
 tenance he could scarcely be known. And some one
 
 92 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 bringing tidings of this to the mother of the maid, she, 
 being a woman full of charity, and liking the gentleman 
 in such fashion that if the kinsfolk had been of her and 
 her daughter's mind, she would have been better pleased 
 with his honest heart than all the riches of another, 
 went to see this unfortunate, whom she found more 
 dead than alive. And perceiving that his end drew 
 near, he had that morning made confession of his sins, 
 and received the blessed sacrament, thinking to die 
 without the sight of any one. But though he was 
 within a span of death, when he saw her enter who was 
 for him the resurrection and the life, he was so much 
 revived that, starting up from his bed, he said to the 
 mother : " What has brought you here, mistress, to visit 
 him who has one foot in the grave, and of whose death 
 you are the cause .-' " " How can it be," she said, 
 " that you receive death from our hands, who love you 
 so well .'' I pray you tell me wherefore you hold this 
 manner of discourse." " Mistress," said he, " although 
 I have, as far as lay within me, concealed the love I 
 bore your daughter, yet my kinsfolk in speaking of 
 our marriage have made too evident my thoughts. 
 Hence I have lost hope, not on account of my pleasure, 
 but because I know that at the hands of no other man 
 will she receive as good love and contentment. Her 
 loss of the best and most affectionate friend she has in 
 the world does me more hurt than the loss of my life, 
 which for her sake alone I was fain to preserve. But 
 since it can now no more avail her anything, the loss of 
 it is to me great gain." At this discourse the mother 
 and daughter laboured to console him, the mother 
 saying : " Take heart, my friend, for if it please God to 
 give you back your health, I promise you my daughter
 
 Day the First. 93 
 
 shall be your wife. See ! she is here, and I command 
 her also to make this promise to you." And the 
 daughter, with much weeping, laboured to assure him 
 of that her mother promised. But he, well knowing 
 that if he recovered his health, he could not have her to 
 wife, and that all this pleasant talk of theirs was only 
 in some sort to revive him, answered them that if they 
 had said all this three months ago he would be the 
 stoutest and the most happy of all the gentlemen in 
 France, but that help had come too late to him, for 
 whom hope was no more. And when he saw that they 
 still laboured to persuade him he spoke as follows : 
 " Since you, on account of my feeble case, promise to 
 me that which, even if you would have it so, can never 
 pertain to me, I ask you to grant me somewhat less, 
 which I have never had the boldness to require at your 
 hands." Straightway they promised, and confirmed 
 their promise with an oath, whereupon he said : " I be- 
 seech you that you place her whom you pledge me for 
 a wife between my arms, and bid her kiss me." The 
 maid, not accustomed to such behaviour, made some 
 difficulty, but her mother straightly charged her, seeing 
 that the gentleman was rather to be counted among the 
 dead than the living, and she went up to the bed of 
 the sick man, saying to him : " Sweetheart, I pray thee 
 be of good cheer." Then this poor soul stretched out 
 his arms, all skin and bone, as well as he could, and 
 kissed with a fervent kiss the cause of his death, and 
 holding her to his cold and bloodless mouth kept her 
 there as long as he could. And furthermore he spoke 
 to her : " The love I have had towards you hath been so 
 seemly and honest that I have never desired more bliss 
 of you than that I now possess, by which, and with
 
 94 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 which I gladly commend my soul to God, who is 
 perfect Love, who knoweth my soul that it is great, 
 and my love that it is without stain. And now, since 
 within my arms I hold my desire, I entreat Him in His 
 arms to take my soul." And at this he pressed her 
 between his arms with such good will that his enfeebled 
 heart was not able to bear it, and was voided of all its 
 radical humours, which joy had so used that his soul 
 fled her seat and returned to her Creator. And though 
 the poor body had lain a long while without life, and 
 was therefore unable any more to hold fast its treasure, 
 the love which the maiden had always kept concealed 
 was now made so manifest that her mother and the 
 servants had much ado to draw them apart ; but by 
 force they took at last the living-dead from the dead, 
 for whom they made honourable burial. And of this 
 the crowning point was in the weeping and lamentations 
 of that poor maid, who in like measure, as she had 
 kept her secret while her lover was yet alive, so made 
 it manifest when he was dead, as if in some part to 
 make satisfaction for the wrong she had done him. 
 And notwithstanding that they gave her a husband for 
 her contentment, never more, so the story goes, did she 
 take any pleasure in her life. 
 
 " Do you not agree, gentlemen, though you would 
 not before believe me, that this example suffices to 
 prove that perfect love may bring men to death, if it be 
 too much hidden from view } There is none amongst 
 you who does not know the kinsfolk on both sides, 
 wherefore there is no room for you to doubt that it is 
 the truth." At this the ladies with one consent fell to 
 weeping, but Hircan said to them : "Verily he was the 
 greatest fool of whom I have ever heard. Is it accord-
 
 Day the First. 95 
 
 ing to reason, prithee, that we should die for women, 
 who are made but for us ? or that we should be afraid 
 to require of them what God has commanded them to 
 give us ? I speak not for myself or married men, but 
 my words are for those whom I account fools to be 
 afraid of those who should be afraid of them. And do 
 you not mark how great was this maiden's regret for 
 her folly ? Since, if she would cling to the body of a 
 dead man — a thing against nature — how much the more 
 would she have clung to him when alive, had he had 
 courage to entreat her love." "All the same," said 
 Oisille, " the gentleman most plainly displayed how 
 honourable a love he had towards her, and for this he 
 is worthy to be had in everlasting remembrance, for to 
 find chastity in an enamoured heart, this, indeed, is 
 mighty rare." "Mistress," said Saffredent, "to confirm 
 the opinion of Hircan, which is likewise mine, I would 
 have you believe that fortune favours the daring, and 
 that there is no man beloved by woman who, if he do 
 his courting with wisdom and gracious ways, will not 
 attain at last to the desire of his heart." " I am aston- 
 ished," said Parlamente, " that you two dare hold such 
 discourse. The ladies you have loved owe you but 
 little thanks, or you have done your service in so bad a 
 quarter that you think all women are like these queans 
 of yours." " I," replied Saffredent, " have the misfortune 
 not to be able to boast of any great success ; but I lay 
 my bad luck less to the virtue of the ladies than to my 
 own lack of wisdom and forethought in going about 
 the matter, and to this intent will put, in the words of 
 the old woman in the Romance of the Rose : ' We are 
 all made, fair sirs, for one another ; every woman for 
 every man, and every man for every woman.' Where-
 
 96 The Forttinate Lovers. 
 
 fore I cannot believe but that, when love is once in 
 session on a woman's heart, her lover will bring matters 
 to a good conclusion, if he be not plainly a blockhead." 
 Parlamente said : " But if I could name a woman, 
 strongly beloved, strongly importuned, and strongly 
 pressed, and all the while an honest woman, victorious 
 over her self, her love, and her lover, would you not 
 believe it for the truth that it is ? " " Why, yes," said 
 he. "Then indeed, said Parlamente, "you would be 
 hard of faith and slow to believe if you were not won 
 by an example I could give you." Dagoucin said to 
 her : " Mistress, since I have shown, by an example, 
 how a virtuous man loved even unto death, I beseech 
 you, if you know any such relation as to woman, to tell 
 it and so bring to a close this day's entertainment, and 
 fear not to speak somewhat at length, for there yet 
 remains abundance of time to discourse many a pleasant 
 case." " Since then," said Parlamente, " I am to bring 
 a close to the day, I will not make a long beginning to 
 my story, for so fine a history have I to relate that I 
 am fain you as well as I should know it. And though 
 my eyes have informed me nothing concerning it, I was 
 told it by one of my most familiar friends to the praise 
 of the man who had of all the world loved most. And 
 he enjoined me that, if I ever told it, I should change 
 the name of the persons therein ; so that it is, excepting 
 names and places, the whole truth and nothing else."
 
 Day the First. 97 
 
 NOVEL X. 
 
 Florida, hard pressed by her lover, virtuonsly resists him, and on 
 
 his death takes the veil. 
 
 In the county of Aranda, in Aragon, there Hved a 
 lady who, while yet in her first youth, was left a widow 
 by the Count of Aranda, with a son and a daughter, 
 the daughter's name being Florida. This lady afore- 
 said laboured to bring up her children in all virtuous- 
 ness of living as appertains to those of gentle blood, 
 and in such sort that her household was commonly 
 accounted one of the most honourable in all the coasts 
 of Spain. She often went to Toledo, where the King 
 held his court, and when she came to Saragossa, which 
 was not far from her house, she would tarry a long 
 while with the Queen and the Court, amongst whom 
 she was held in the highest honour. On one day going, 
 as her manner was, to stand in the presence of the 
 King in his castle of Jasserye, near Saragossa, she 
 passed through a village pertaining to the Viceroy of 
 Catalonia, who was not used to stir beyond the coasts 
 of Perpignan, for the great wars between the Kings of 
 France and Spain. ^ But it so fell out that at this time 
 
 ^ Notwithstanding the pomp and circumstance of History which adorns 
 this novel, M. le Roux de Lincy, mindful of this phrase, " I have changed 
 the names and places," suggests that this adventure happened at the Court 
 of Louisa of Savoy, left a widow in her first youth, by the death of the 
 Count of Angouleme. In this case, Florida would be Margaret herself, 
 (although she asserts she was not an eye-witness). If we adopt AL le 
 Roux's suggestion, as I am inclined to do, it appears obvious to me that 
 the Duke of Cardona is Charles of Alenfon, and the King of the Moors, 
 Charles v., and Amadour, "a younger son with no inheritance," cherishing 
 a hopeless love for Margaret — Amadour, perhaps, may stand for 
 Bonnivet or Montmorency, or possibly for (Juiliano dei Medici, Duke of
 
 9 8 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 there was peace, wherefore the Viceroy and all his 
 captains had come to do their suit and service to the 
 King. And the Viceroy, being advised that the Coun- 
 tess of Aranda passed through his domain, went to 
 meet her both for the ancient friendship that was be- 
 tween them and to do her honour as a kinswoman of the 
 King. Now he had in his company many honourable 
 gentlemen, who by the long continuance of the wars 
 had gained so much glory and good report that anyone 
 who could see them and resort to them counted himself 
 happy on that account. And amongst the rest was one 
 named Amadour, who, although he was but eighteen or 
 nineteen years of age, had so well-assured a grace, and 
 so good an understanding, that he would have been 
 chosen out from a thousand as worthy the office of a 
 governor. True it is that this good understanding was 
 conjoined with such beauty that no eye could refrain 
 from looking on him, and though this beauty was of so 
 excellent a kind, yet it was hard pressed by his manner 
 of speaking ; so that men knew not where to bestow 
 the palm, to his grace, his beauty, or the words of his 
 mouth. But that for which he was most of all esteemed 
 was his surpassing bravery, notwithstanding he was so 
 young, for in so many places had he shown the strength 
 of his arm that not only in all the coasts of Sj^ain, but 
 also in France and Italy, his virtues were held in great 
 account, and with good reason, since in no fight did he 
 spare himself; and when his own country was at peace 
 
 Nemours, who married Philiberte de Savoie, the young aunt and intimate 
 friend of Margaret. Still he remains an uncertain figure. Florida, how- 
 ever, at Cardona, in the company of her unloveable husband, and the old 
 Duchess, with her maxims and her patience, might stand for Margaret in 
 her dreary youth at Alen^on, "living a Hfe scarce better than death."
 
 Day the First. 99 
 
 he would seek for wars in foreign lands, where likewise 
 he was beloved as well by enemies as friends. 
 
 This gentleman, for the love he bore his general, 
 came with him to his domain, whither the Countess of 
 Aranda was arrived ; and as he looked upon the beauty 
 and grace of her daughter Florida, then about twelve 
 years old, he thought' within himself that she was the 
 sweetest he had ever beheld, and that could he gain her 
 favour it would do him more pleasure than anything 
 whatsoever he might win from another woman. And 
 after for a long while fixing his regard upon her, he 
 resolved to give her his love, although reason made 
 plain to him that he desired impossible things, as much 
 for that she was of a most noble house as for her tender 
 years, which as yet were not fit to listen to the discourse 
 he was fain to make to her. But against this fear he 
 strengthened himself with hope, promising himself that 
 time and patience would bring a happy issue to his 
 undertaking, and from henceforth the great love that 
 was entered into his heart assured him of means of 
 attaining thereto. And to surpass the greatest difficulty 
 of all, that was the remoteness of his own land, and his 
 few opportunities of seeing Florida, he was resolved to 
 marry, contrary to what he had determined while he 
 was with the dames of Barcelona and Perpignan, where 
 he was held in such account that few or none would 
 have refused him. And so long had he tarried in these 
 coasts, by reason of the wars, that his speech smacked 
 rather of Catalonia than Castille, although he was born 
 near Toledo of a wealthy and honourable house, but 
 being a younger son, he had no inheritance. So, per- 
 chance, it came to pass that Love and Fortune, seeing 
 him abandoned of his kinsfolk, determined to make a
 
 loo The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 masterpiece of him, and by means of his virtuousness 
 and courage granted him what he could not obtain from 
 the laws of his country. Such good skill had he in the 
 craft of war, and so well-beloved was he by lords and 
 princes, that he more frequently refused their employ 
 than asked for it. 
 
 The Countess then has come to Saragossa, and has 
 been graciously received by the King and his Court. 
 The Viceroy of Catalonia often came to visit her, and 
 Amadour never failed to accompany him, only that he 
 might have the delight of looking upon Florida, for of 
 speaking to her he had no opportunity. So to make 
 himself known in such good company he addressed 
 himself to the daughter of an old knight, his neighbour, 
 whose name was Aventurada, and who had such con- 
 verse with Florida that she knew what was in the 
 depths of her heart. Amadour, whether for the gracious- 
 ness he found in her, or for the three thousand ducats 
 a-year that was her dowry, determined to talk to her as 
 one he desired to marry. And willingly did she give 
 ear to him, but seeing that he was poor and her father 
 rich, she thought that he would never give her in 
 marriage to Amadour unless by the entreaty of the 
 Countess of Aranda. Wherefore she addressed herself 
 to Florida, saying : " You have seen that young gentle- 
 man of Castille often speaking with me, and I am 
 persuaded that his intent is to ask me in marriage. 
 You know too what kind of father I have, and that he 
 will never consent thereto, if he be not strongly entreated 
 of the Countess and yourself." Florida, who loved her 
 as herself, promised that she would lay this to heart as 
 if it were for her own peculiar good ; and Aventurada 
 accomplished so much as to present Amadour to her,
 
 Day the First. loi 
 
 who on kissing of her hand was like to have swooned 
 away for joy. And he, who was accounted the readiest 
 speaker in all Spain, was so affected in her presence 
 that he stood dumb ; and this was matter of great 
 surprise to her, who, although she was but twelve years 
 old, had well understood that no man in Spain could 
 say what he wished more readily or with a better grace. 
 So seeing that he said nothing, she began thus : " The 
 renown that you have won, my lord, in all the coasts of 
 Spain is so great as to make you well known in this 
 Court, and causes those who are of your acquaintance 
 to desire to employ themselves in your service ; where- 
 fore, if there is anything wherein I can aid you, I am at 
 your command." Amadour fixing his eyes upon her 
 beauty was thereby possessed with such a ravishment, 
 that he could hardly find words to give her his hearty 
 thanks, whereupon Florida, astonished to find him thus 
 dumb, but putting it down to some fantasy and not to 
 the power of love, went from his presence without 
 another word. 
 
 Amadour, perceiving the goodness which even in 
 early youth began to show itself in Florida, said to her 
 whom he intended for his wife : " Marvel not that in 
 the presence of Mistress Florida I lost all power of 
 speech, since the virtues and the wisdom which are 
 contained in one of so few years in such wise astonished 
 me that I knew not what to say. But, prithee, tell me, 
 Aventurada, who know all her secrets, whether every 
 heart at Court is not in love with her, for verily they 
 who know her and love her not are either hard as rocks 
 or senseless as beasts." Aventurada, who by this time 
 loved Amadour better than all the men in the world, 
 would not conceal aught from him, and so told him that
 
 I02 The ForUuiate Lovers. 
 
 Florida was beloved of all, but by the custom of the 
 
 land few spoke to her, and still fewer — nay, only two — 
 
 paid any court towards her. And these two were 
 
 Spanish Princes, of whom one was the son of the 
 
 Fortunate Infante, the other the young Duke of Cardona. 
 
 " Prithee, then, tell me which she loves best." " She is 
 
 so prudent," said Aventurada, " that she would never 
 
 confess to having any will besides her mother's in the 
 
 matter; natheless, as far as my wit goes, I am persuaded 
 
 she loves the son of the Fortunate Infante above the 
 
 Duke of Cardona. But to her mother Cardona is most 
 
 agreeable, since in the case of their being wed she 
 
 would have her daughter always by her. And of such 
 
 good judgment do I esteem you that this very day, if it 
 
 is your pleasure, you may come to a conclusion, for the 
 
 son of the Fortunate Infante^ is being nurtured in this 
 
 Court, and is one of the bravest and most admirable 
 
 young princes in Christendom. And if we maids had 
 
 the disposing of the matter, he would be well assured of 
 
 his bride, and we should have the fairest couple in all 
 
 Spain. You must understand that, although they are 
 
 both young, she twelve and he but fifteen, it is already 
 
 three years since the courtship began, and if you would 
 
 have her favour, I would counsel you to make yourself 
 
 his faithful friend and follower." 
 
 Amadour was in great delight to hear she was in love 
 with something, hoping that in time he might gain the 
 place.not of husband but of lover,for it was not her virtue 
 that he feared, but lest she should have no love Avhat- 
 ever in her temperament. And soon after these pas- 
 
 ^ The Fortunate Infante, Henry of Arragon, left no legitimate children, 
 and this again seems to point out that this parade of History is merely a 
 disguise.
 
 Day the First. 103 
 
 sages he began to be constantly in company with the 
 son of the Fortunate Infante, whose good graces he 
 easily obtained, for in whatsoever pastime the young 
 prince took delight he was well skilled, and above all in 
 the practice of horsemanship, and in sword play, and 
 to be short, in all the games which it is becoming in a 
 prince to know. But war broke out in Languedoc, and 
 needs must that Amadour return with the governor, 
 which indeed was great grief to him, since it took away 
 the possibility of his seeing Florida ; wherefore on his 
 setting out he told a brother of his, who was chamber- 
 lain to the King, of the good match he had made in 
 the person of Aventurada, and prayed him that in his 
 absence he would do all that lay within him to forward 
 the marriage, thereto employing the favour he had with 
 the King and Queen and all his friends. The gentle- 
 man, who loved his brother not only for his kinsman- 
 ship but also for his excellent endowments, promised 
 him to use his best endeavours, and moreover did so, 
 inasmuch as the father, a surly old miser, laid by his 
 natural complexion and paid some regard to the virtues 
 of Amadour, which the Countess of Aranda, and above 
 all Mistress Florida, took care to set before him. Also 
 in this they were aided by the young Count of Aranda, 
 who as he grew in years began to esteem brave men. 
 So the marriage having been agreed upon by the kins- 
 folk on either side, the King's chamberlain sent for his 
 brother, since a lasting truce had been made between 
 the two kings. 
 
 About this time the King of Spain betook himself to 
 Madrid to avoid the malaria prevailing where he was, 
 and at the advice of his Privy Council, and the request 
 of the Countess of Aranda, he gave consent to the
 
 I04 The Fo^'hiiiate Lovers. 
 
 marriage of the Duchess of Medina-Celi with the young 
 Count of Aranda,! no less for their contentment and the 
 union of their houses than for the love he bore towards 
 the Countess ; and so was pleased that the marriage 
 should be solemnised in his castle at Madrid, And at 
 the marriage feast was present Amadour, who used 
 such good means on his own account that he was 
 wedded to the lady whose love for him was beyond 
 compare greater than his for her. But to be short, he 
 held his wife only as a cloak to conceal his liking for 
 another, and a means whereby he might be incessantly 
 in Florida's company. After that he was married he 
 entered into all the privity of the Countess of Aranda's 
 household, where they paid no more heed to him than 
 if he had been a woman. And though at this time he 
 had not seen more than twenty-two years, yet so sage 
 was he that the Countess would make known to him all 
 her occasions, and enjoined her son to discourse with 
 him and give ear to all his counsels. And having 
 attained this high point in their esteem, he kept himself 
 so prudently and coldly that even she whom he loved 
 knew nothing of his thoughts. But since Florida loved 
 his wife above all others, she trusted in him in such sort 
 that she concealed from him nothing, and at this time 
 opened to him all the love she had for the Fortunate 
 Infante. So he, who sought but one thing, to gain her 
 altogether for himself, talked to her always of the prince, 
 for it mattered not one whit to him what the subject of 
 their discourse might be so that it lasted a long time. 
 There he stayed for a month after his marriage was 
 concluded, and was then forced to go to the wars, 
 whither he remained two years without returning to see 
 ' The marriage of Francis of Angouleme and Claude of France, 1507 ?
 
 Day the First. 105 
 
 his wife. And she lived all this while in the place 
 where her nurture had been. 
 
 And during these two years he wrote often to his 
 wife ; but his letters consisted for the most part of mes- 
 sages to Florida, who on her side failed not to return 
 them, and in every letter of Aventurada's sent him 
 some pleasant piece of wit, and this made the husband 
 unfailing in his writing. But with all this Florida dis- 
 covered nothing save that he loved her as if he had been 
 a brother. Now and again he would come home, but in 
 such sort that in five years he only saw Florida for two 
 months altogether ; yet in despite of estrangement and 
 the length of his absence his love did but increase. And 
 it came to pass that he made a journey to see his wife, 
 and found the Countess far removed from the Court, 
 for the King was gone to Andalusia, bearing with him 
 the young Count of Aranda, who was now beginning 
 to carry arms. The Countess had betaken herself to 
 her pleasure-house on the coasts of Aragon and Navarre, 
 and was glad to see Amadour return, since for nigh 
 three years he had been away. He was made welcome 
 by all, and the Countess enjoined that he should be 
 used as if he had been her own son. While he was 
 with her she advertised him of all the charges of the 
 household, and for the most part took his judgment 
 thereon, and so great esteem did he win at this place, 
 that whithersoever he would go the door was opened 
 to him, since they made such account of his prudence 
 that he was trusted like an angel or a holy man. 
 Florida, for the love she bore his wife and himself, 
 sought him out wherever he went, and had no suspicion 
 of him, wherefore she put no guard on her face, having 
 no love to conceal, but only feeling great contentment
 
 io6 The Fo7'tuiiate Lovers. 
 
 when he was by her. Amadour was in great pains to 
 escape the suspicion of those who can discern a lover 
 from a friend, for when Florida came quietly to speak 
 to him, the flame that was in his heart rose so high that 
 he could not hinder the colour rising on his cheeks or 
 conceal the flashing of his eyes. And to the end that 
 nobody might observe all this, he set himself to pay 
 court to a mighty fine lady named Pauline, who, in her 
 time, had such renown from her beauty that few who 
 saw her escaped her nets. And this Pauline, hearing 
 that Amadour had had some experience of the love- 
 craft in Barcelona and Perpignan, and had gained the 
 aflection of the handsomest gentlewomen in the country, 
 notably that of the Countess of Palamos, who was 
 accounted for the most beautiful of all the Spanish 
 ladies, told him that it was a great pity, after such good 
 fortune, to have taken to wife so ugly a woman. But 
 Amadour, understanding by her words that she had a 
 mind to help him in his hour of need, made as pleasant 
 discourse to her as might be, thinking that, if he could 
 cause her to believe what was false, he should there- 
 by hide from her the truth. But she, of keen wit, well 
 tried in the service of love, was not to be contented 
 with words alone, and being assured that such kindness 
 as he had for her did not suffice him, suspected he 
 would fain use her as a cloak, and on that account kept 
 good watch on his eyes. But these knew so well how 
 to feign, that any suspicion she might conceive was but 
 dark and obscure, yet it was matter of great toil to the 
 gentleman, since Florida, ignorant of all these plottings, 
 used him in such familiar fashion before Pauline that 
 his eyes had a wondrous struggle with his heart. And 
 for the avoiding of this, one day he spoke as follows
 
 Day the First. 107 
 
 to Florida, while they were standing by a window : 
 " Prithee, sweetheart, tell me whether is it better to 
 speak or to die ? " And Florida presently replied to 
 him : " I would counsel all such as are my friends to 
 speak and not die, for 'tis a bad speech that cannot be 
 mended, but a life lost cannot be recalled." " You 
 promise me then," said Amadour, " that you will not 
 only take in good part what I am going to say, but 
 even that you will not be astonished thereat till I have 
 made an end." To this she replied : " Say what you 
 will, for if you astonish me, none can reassure me." 
 And so he began : " Mistress, up to this time I have 
 had no wish to speak of my love towards you, and this 
 for two reasons. In the first place, because I desired 
 to be well tried by you, and in the second, because I 
 doubted whether you would esteem it for an honour to 
 be loved by me, who am but a poor gentleman. And 
 again, though I were of as high estate as yourself, the 
 steadfastness of your heart would not allow you to 
 listen to love-talk from any but him who has gained 
 your love, I would say the son of the Fortunate 
 Infante. But just as in war, necessity makes men 
 sacrifice their own possessions, and cut down their own 
 corn lest the enemy enjoy it, so I dare to risk gathering 
 beforehand the fruit I hoped to pluck much later, lest 
 it profit our enemies and be to your loss. Understand 
 then that from your youth until now I have been so 
 given up to your service that I have never w^earied in 
 seeking to gain your favour, and for that cause alone 
 did I wed her whom I thought you loved the best. 
 And knowing the love you bore to the son of the 
 Fortunate Infante, I have taken pains, as you are 
 advised, to do him service and to be frequently with
 
 io8 The Foi'htnatc Lovers. 
 
 him, and all this because I fain would please you, and 
 truly I have used to that end all my power. You know 
 that I have gained the favour of your mother and 
 brother, and all whom you love, in such sort that I am 
 held in this house not as a servant but a son, and all 
 the pains that for these five 'years I have taken have 
 been to no other intent than that with you I may pass 
 all my life. Understand that I am not of those 
 who would pretend by these means to get anything 
 from you to the hurt of your honour, for I know 
 that I cannot take you to wife, and even if I could 
 I would not do this thing against him whom you love, 
 and whom I desire to see your husband. And so far 
 removed am I from those who, by long service, hope 
 for a reward against the honour of their ladies, and love 
 with a vicious love, that I would rather see you dead 
 than know you were less worthy of being loved, or that 
 your virtue had, for my pleasure, been made of small 
 account. For the end and reward of what I have done 
 I ask alone one thing — that you be to me such a mis- 
 tress as never to take your favour from me, that you 
 continue me in my present case, trusting in me more 
 than in any other, and being well assured that, if in 
 any matter you need a gentleman's life, mine shall be 
 with the heartiest good will at your service. And in 
 like manner I would have you believe that whatever I 
 do that is brave and honourable is done only for your 
 sake. And if I have done for ladies of far less account 
 than you things which have been thought worthy of 
 regard, be assured that, you being my mistress, my 
 bravery will grow in such fashion that deeds I aforetime 
 found impossible shall become most easy to be per- 
 formed. But if you will not accept me as wholly yours.
 
 Day the First. j 09 
 
 it is in my mind to renounce arms, and the valour 
 which helped me not in my hour of need. Wherefore, 
 mistress, I entreat that my desire be granted me, for- 
 asmuch as your honour and conscience cannot fairly 
 refuse it." 
 
 The maid, hearing this strange discourse, began to 
 change colour and let down her eyelids, as a frightened 
 woman is accustomed. Natheless, since she was wise 
 and prudent, she said to him : " Wherefore is it, Ama- 
 dour, that you ask of me what you have already ? To 
 what intent is all this talk } I greatly fear that beneath 
 your honourable words there is concealed some hidden 
 evil to deceive the ignorance of my youth. Wherefore 
 I am in great doubt what to reply ; for if I refuse the 
 honourable friendship you offer me, I shall be doing 
 the very contrary to what I have always done, since I 
 have trusted you above all men. Neither my conscience 
 nor mine honour forbid your desire, nor yet my love 
 for the son of the Fortunate Infante, for that is founded 
 upon marriage, to which you make no pretence. I 
 know nothing to hinder me from replying to you accord- 
 ing to your wish, if it be not the fear I have at heart 
 arising from the small need you had to ask all this ; 
 for since you have what you require, what need to ask 
 for it ?" Amadour, who was not without an answer, 
 said to her : " Mistress, you speak according to wisdom, 
 and do me so great honour by the faith you put in me, 
 that if I were not content with this reward, I should 
 not be worthy of any other. But know that he who 
 would build a house to last for ever must take care first 
 to lay a strong and sure foundation ; wherefore I, who 
 would dwell for ever in your service, must take care not 
 only of the means whereby I may always be near you.
 
 r lo The Foi'tunate Lovers. 
 
 but also that none other be advised of my great love 
 towards you. For though it be honourable enough to 
 be proclaimed from the housetops, yet those who cannot 
 discern the hearts of lovers often judge falsely concern- 
 ing them, and thereby come evil rumours, of which the 
 event is likewise evil. And she who makes me say this 
 and manifest my love towards you is Pauline, who has 
 strong suspicions concerning me, and knowing well in 
 her heart that I do not love her, makes it her chief 
 concern to watch my face. And when you so familiarly 
 come and speak to me before her, I am in great fear 
 lest I make some sign for her to found her suspicion on, 
 and so fall into the pit I am fain to escape. Wherefore 
 it has been my intent to entreat you that before her 
 and before others whom you know to be as malicious 
 as she is, you come not so suddenly to speak to me, 
 for I had rather die than any man should come to a 
 knowledge on these matters. And had I not been 
 so tender of your honour I would not have had 
 this discourse with you, since I deem myself suffi- 
 ciently happy in your love and confidence towards 
 me, and ask of you nothing more than to continue them 
 unto the end." 
 
 Florida, who on hearing this was exceedingly glad, 
 began to feel a somewhat at her heart she had never 
 felt before, and considering the fair conclusions he had 
 laid before her, replied that virtue and honour answered 
 for her, and granted his desire. And who that has 
 loved can be in doubt as to whether Amadour rejoiced 
 thereat .<* But Florida more straitly followed his coun- 
 sels than he would have her, for she, being afraid not 
 only in the presence of Pauline but everywhere beside, 
 no longer would seek him out as she had been accus-
 
 Day the First. 1 1 1 
 
 tomed ; and whilst they were thus estranged she took 
 in bad part his often going to Pauh'ne, whom she 
 thought so pretty that she could not believe but that 
 he loved her. And for the consolation of her sadness 
 she had much talk with Aventurada, who began to be 
 exceeding jealous of her husband and Pauline, and so 
 ofttimes made complaint to Florida, who comforted her 
 as well as might be, she herself being stricken with the 
 same plague. Amadou r before long perceiving how 
 Florida was changed towards him, thought that she did 
 not merely follow his counsels, but had mingled with 
 them some peevish imagination of her own devising. 
 And one day, while they were going to evensong at a 
 monastery, he said to her : " Prithee, mistress, what 
 countenance is this you show me .'' " " I suppose that 
 which pleases you," said she. Whereupon, having a 
 suspicion of the truth, and willing to know if he was 
 right, he began to say : " Mistress, I have so spent my 
 days that Pauline thinks no more of you." To which 
 she replied : " Than this you cannot do better, both for 
 yourself and for me, for in serving your pleasure you 
 preserve my honour." At which Amadour saw that 
 she thought he took pleasure in parley with Pauline, 
 and at this thought waxed so desperate that he could 
 not contain himself, and wrathfully exclaimed : " Truly, 
 mistress, these are early days to begin tormenting your 
 poor slave and pelting him to death with bitter words, 
 for I thought there could be no greater travail than to 
 oblige myself to parley with one for whom I have no 
 lo\e. And since what I have done in your service 
 is taken by you in bad part, I will never again speak to 
 her, come what will of it ! And that I may conceal my 
 wrath as well as I have concealed my contentment, I
 
 1 1 2 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 will begone to some place hardby until your fantasy is 
 overpast. But I have good hopes while I am there to 
 get tidings from my general that will take me back to 
 the wars, where I will stay long enough to let you 
 know that you alone have kept me here." Thus 
 saying, and without waiting for a reply, he forthwith left 
 her. At this Florida was filled with grief and sadness, 
 and love by its repulse began to show her all its 
 strength, in such wise that, knowing the ill she had 
 done him, she wrote again and again to Amadour 
 praying him to return, and this he did after that a space 
 of some days had abated the bitterness of his anger. 
 
 I cannot make for you a particular account of the 
 discourse by which they destroyed this jealousy. At 
 all events, he won the battle, inasmuch as she promised 
 him to believe no more that he was in love with 
 Pauline, and also that she was assured that to speak 
 with Pauline or anyone else, save to do her a service, 
 Avas a martyrdom hardly to be borne. 
 
 And when love had conquered this first suspicion, 
 and the two lovers began to take more delight than 
 ever in talking with one another, tidings were brought 
 that the King of Spain was drawing his whole army to 
 Salces. Wherefore Amadour, who was always in the 
 van of battle, lost not this chance of winning for himself 
 glory, yet it is true that he went with a regret that was 
 not his custom as much for the loss of pleasure as 
 fearing to find some change on his return. And this 
 because he knew that Florida was sought in marriage 
 by great princes and, lords, seeing she was now come to 
 the age of fifteen or sixteen years,^ wherefore he thought 
 
 ^ Margaret was sixteen in 1508. In jSIarch 1509 Francis proclaimed 
 war against Venice.
 
 Day the Fii'st. 1 1 3 
 
 that if she was married while he was away he would no 
 longer have any opportunity of seeing her, except the 
 Countess of Aranda should give her as a companion 
 his wife Aventurada. And so well did he manage his 
 affairs amongst his friends that the Countess promised 
 that, let her daughter go where she might, his wife 
 should go with her. And though it was intended that 
 Florida should be married in Portugal, yet it was 
 determined that Aventurada should never forsake her ; 
 so on this assurance, not without regret unspeakable, 
 Amadour went away and left his wife with the Countess. 
 And when Florida found herself alone after the de- 
 parture of her slave, she set herself to the doing of good 
 works, whereby she would fain get as much honour and 
 repute as the most perfect women, and show herself 
 worthy of such a lover as Amadour. And he, being 
 arrived at Barcelona, received from the ladies such 
 welcome as he was wont, but so changed did they find 
 him that they would not have believed that marriage 
 had such power over a man as it had over him. For it 
 was plain that the things in which aforetime he had 
 taken delight now wearied him ; and the very Coun- 
 tess of Palamos whom he had loved so well could scarce 
 find means to draw him to her lodging, on which 
 account he made but short stay at Barcelona, being 
 weary for the fight and the heat of battle. And when 
 he had come to Salces, there began that great and 
 fierce war between the two kings of which I do not 
 propose to make any relation, not so much of the 
 mighty deeds done by Amadour, for if I did my tale 
 would be long enough to suffice for the entertainment 
 of a whole day. But know that he far excelled in 
 glory each and all of his fellows. And when the Duke 
 
 H
 
 114 T^^^ Foj^unate Lovers, 
 
 of Nagera came to Perpignan, being captain over two 
 thousand, he entreated Amadour to be his lieutenant, 
 who with his band did such service that in every fight 
 the battle-cry was " Nagera! " 
 
 At this time it came to pass that the King of Tunis, 
 who for a long while had waged war with the Spaniard, 
 hearing that the Kings of France and Spain were at 
 odds together on the coasts of Perpignan and Narbonne, 
 thought that he could find no better occasion of doing 
 a displeasure to the King of Spain. To this end he 
 dispatched a host of light galleys and other ships to 
 pillage and destroy any badly-guarded place on the 
 coasts of Spain. The men of Barcelona, seeing a great 
 number of vessels passing in front of the town, advertised 
 the viceroy of the matter ; and he, who was then at 
 Salces, forthwith sent the Duke of Nagera to Palamos. 
 And the Moors, seeing the place guarded in such 
 sort, feigned to go away, but returned about midnight 
 and sent so many men on shore, that the Duke of 
 Nagera was surprised by the enemy and taken captive. 
 Amadour, who kept good watch, hearing the tumult, 
 drew together as great a company as he was able, and 
 made such defence that the enemy, for all their numbers, 
 were for a long while unable to accomplish anything. 
 But at last, knowing the Duke of Nagera to be taken, 
 and that the Moors were resolved to set Palamos afire, 
 and with it the house he held against them, he preferred 
 to render himself up than to be the cause of destroying 
 the brave men who were of his fellowship. Also he 
 had hopes of being ransomed, and thus once more to 
 see Florida. So he presently gave himself up to a 
 Moor named Dorlin, governor to the King of Tunis. 
 And this man took him to his master, by whom he was
 
 Day the First. 1 1 5 
 
 well received and better guarded, for the King, having 
 him in his hands, thought he had taken the Achilles of 
 the Spaniards. 
 
 And so abode i\madour nigh two years in the service 
 of the King of Tunis. Now the report of this mischance 
 was brought to Spain, at which the kinsfolk of the 
 Duke of Nagera were sore grieved ; but they who laid 
 the honour of their country to heart esteemed the 
 capture of Amadour to be the greater loss. And the 
 news came to the house of the Countess of Aranda, 
 where at this time lay Aventurada grievously sick. 
 The Countess, who had great suspicion of the love 
 Amadour bore her daughter, but suffered it and con- 
 cealed it for the virtues she discerned in him, called 
 her apart and told her these pitiful tidings. Florida, 
 who knew well how to feign, replied that it was a great 
 loss for the whole house, and above all for his poor 
 wife, who was now in such evil case. But seeing her 
 mother weeping exceedingly, she too let a few tears 
 drop to bear her company, fearing that by feigning too 
 much her deceit might become apparent. And from 
 this time the Countess often spoke to her of him, but 
 could never found her suspicions on anything in 
 Florida's face. I leave untold the pilgrimages, prayers, 
 and fasts which Florida discharged in due order for the 
 safety of Amadour, who no sooner got to Tunis than he 
 sent tidings thereof to his friends, and b}^ a trusty 
 messenger advertised Florida that he was in good 
 health and hope of seeing her again. And this was the 
 poor lady's only means of sustaining her anguish, so 
 doubt not that, since it was permitted him to write to 
 her, she in return did her part so well that her letters of 
 consolation came to Amadour thick and fast.
 
 1 1 6 The Fortunate Lovers, 
 
 At this time the Countess was commanded of the 
 King to go to Saragossa, where he was come, and she 
 found there the young Duke of Cardona, who so 
 strongly urged the King and Queen that they prayed 
 the Countess to give him her daughter in marriage. 
 The Countess, who in nothing was disobedient to their 
 will, agreed thereto, thinking that her daughter, who 
 was still young, could have no will in the matter but 
 her own. And when the agreement was determined 
 upon she told her daughter that she had chosen as mate 
 for her one she thought most fitting. And Florida, 
 knowing that when a thing is done it skills not to give 
 advice, said to her that for all things God was to be 
 praised ; and seeing her mother bear herself coldly 
 towards her, she had enough to do to obey without 
 much pity of herself. And as matter of consolation for 
 her woes, it was told her that the son of the Fortunate 
 Infante was sick unto death : but neither before her 
 mother nor any beside did she ever make any appear- 
 ance of grief Indeed so strongly did she constrain 
 herself that the tears driven inwardly into her heart 
 caused such a flow of blood from the nose that her life 
 was in jeopardy ; and that she might be restored they 
 gave her as wife to him, than whom she would far 
 rather have received death. And after the wedding 
 was brought to a close, Florida went with her husband 
 to the duchy of Cardona, taking with her Aventurada, 
 to whom she privily made her complaints both of the 
 rigour of her mother and the grief she had at the loss 
 of the son of the Fortunate Infante. But of her grief 
 at the loss of Amadour she said nothing save by way of 
 consolation. And from this time she resolved to keep 
 God always before her eyes ; and so well concealed her
 
 Day the First. 1 1 7 
 
 sorrows that none of her people ever perceived that her 
 husband was displeasing to her. 
 
 So passed a long time, Florida living a life scarce 
 better than death. And of all this she failed not to 
 send news to her lover, who knowing the greatness of 
 her heart and the love she bore to the son of the Fortu- 
 nate Infante, thought it scarce possible that she should 
 continue to live, and mourned for her as one worse than 
 dead. And by this dolour his own was increased, since 
 he would willingly have continued all his days a slave, 
 if Florida could but have a husband to her liking ; so 
 did he forget his own woe in that which his sweetheart 
 had. And for that he heard, by a friend he had at the 
 Court of the King of Tunis, that the aforesaid King 
 was resolved to give him his choice of impalement or 
 renouncing his faith, because he greatly desired for him 
 to become a good Mussulman and continue in his 
 service, he persuaded his master to let him go on his 
 parole. And this master put upon his head so high a 
 ransom as he thought could never be found by a man 
 of small means. So then, without speaking on the 
 matter to the King, his master let him go. And when 
 he had gone to Court and stood in the presence, he 
 went forth amongst all his friends to the intent that he 
 might get together the ransom, and straightway betook 
 him to Barcelona, whither the young Duke of Cardona, 
 his mother, and Florida had gone on some charges. 
 And as soon as his wife Aventurada had tidings that 
 her husband was returned from captivity, she bore them 
 to Florida, who rejoiced thereat, as if for love of her. 
 But fearing lest her joy upon seeing him might change 
 the manner of her countenance, and lest they who knew 
 her not might take a bad opinion of her, she withdrew
 
 1 18 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 herself to a window, that she might see him coming 
 from afar. And as soon as she perceived him she went 
 down by a stair so dark that no one could see her 
 change colour, and embracing Amadour she led him to 
 her room and that of her mother-in-law, to whom he 
 was unknown. But he tarried there only two days, and 
 in that time made himself as much beloved by them all 
 as he had been in the household of the Countess of 
 Aranda. 
 
 It is not my intent to tell you of all the talk that 
 Florida and he were able to have together, and the 
 complaints she made to him for the ills done her in his 
 absence. After much weeping, both for that she was 
 married to one against her liking, and also that she had 
 lost beyond hope of seeing again him whom she loved 
 so well, she determined to draw some causes of consola- 
 tion out of the love and firm trust she had in Amadour, 
 though she never durst declare it to him. But he, 
 having some suspicions, lost neither time nor opportu- 
 nity of letting her know how great a love he had 
 towards her. And just at that time, when she was 
 ready to receive him not as a servant but as a true and 
 perfect lover, it fell out by evil hap that the King, by 
 reason of certain weighty charges, commanded the im- 
 mediate presence of Amadour. And this so grieved 
 his wife that, on hearing of the news, she swooned 
 away, and falling down a stair did herself such hurt 
 that she was not taken up alive. Florida, who through 
 this death lost all consolation, made mourning as one 
 who weeps for her father and mother and all her 
 kinsfolk. But still more did Amadour grieve, not alone 
 that he had lost on his side one of the best wives in the 
 world, but also that he had lost all means of seeing
 
 Day the First. 1 1 9 
 
 Florida ; at which he fell into such sadness that he was 
 like to have died. The old Duchess of Cardona came 
 often to speak with him, and drew from the philoso- 
 phical writings many good and solid reasons for him to 
 bear this loss with patience. But this did not much 
 avail him, for if death itself was torment, love did but 
 increase the agony. So Amadour, having beheld the 
 burial of his wife and having no more cause for delaying 
 to perform the King's commands, was filled with such 
 despair that his brain wellnigh fell into some distemper. 
 But Florida, in endeavouring to console him, spent a 
 whole afternoon discoursing to him in the most gracious 
 sort to the intent of diminishing the extremity of his 
 grief, assuring him that she would find better means of 
 seeing him than he thought. And since he was to set 
 out on the morrow, and was so weak that he could 
 hardly stir from his bed, he entreated her to come and 
 see him in the evening after every one had done so, 
 which she promised, ignorant that his love knew not 
 bounds nor reason. And he, who found himself in 
 despair of ever seeing her again whom he had served 
 so long, made more complaint than was his custom, 
 that the people of the house might not believe him to 
 have twenty-four hours to live. 
 
 After that every one had been to see him, Florida, 
 her very husband desiring her, went to him, intending 
 as matter of consolation to declare her aft"ection, and to 
 assure him that, as far as honour allowed, she would 
 give him her love. And she sat herself down on the 
 chair by the bedside, and began her consolation by 
 weeping with him. Amadour, seeing her grief, with the 
 face of one half dead, let himself fall into her arms like 
 affainting man. Yet, even this, he sought to attempt
 
 1 20 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 her dishonour, whereat Florida, mightily astonished, 
 suspected rather that he had taken leave of his senses 
 than that he could play so vile a part. Wherefore she 
 called aloud to a gentleman whom she well knew to be 
 in the room, and at this Amadour, in the bitterness of 
 his despair, threw himself back so suddenly upon the 
 bed that the gentleman held him for a dead man. 
 Florida, having arisen from the chair, said to him : "Go 
 presently and get some vinegar." And this he did, 
 whereupon Florida began : " Amadour, Avhat fantasy is 
 mounted to your brain } and what were you minded to 
 have done .'' " He, who by reason of love had lost all 
 reason, replied : " Doth so long a service as mine 
 deserve so cruel a return } " " And where is that 
 honour," said Florida, "which you have so often 
 preached to me } " " Ah ! mistress," said Amadour, 
 " it is not possible to be more tender of your honour 
 than I have been ; for before that you were married I 
 so conquered my heart that you knew nothing of my 
 desire ; but now that you are married, and your honour 
 is in safe keeping, what wrong is this I do you ? For 
 by the very force of love I have won you. He who 
 first had your heart laid so poor a siege to your love 
 that he well deserved the loss. He to whom your 
 body now belongs is by no means worthy of your 
 heart. But I, mistress, who for these five or six years 
 have borne for your sake so many woes, you cannot 
 deny that it is I alone who deserve both your body and 
 your heart. And if you would call your conscience into 
 court, be well assured that being encompassed round 
 with love on every side, we shall not be held to sin ; do 
 we account them sinful who slay themselves in a fit of 
 madness .-' Nay, passion and reason cannot dwell
 
 Day the First. 1 2 1 
 
 together — and love is the most unbearable of passions. 
 What sin would you impute to one who is carried along 
 by such irresistible might ? I am about to go, having 
 no hope of seeing you any more. And if it be not your 
 pleasure to grant me my desire, you shall soon perceive 
 that your hard heart has caused me a most miserable 
 and cruel death." 
 
 Florida, no less grieved than astonished at such dis- 
 course from him, from whose lips she never thought to 
 have heard the like, said weeping : " Alas ! Amadour, 
 is this the virtuous talk you had with me while I was 
 yet young "i Is this the honour and the good conscience 
 you have so often counselled me rather to die than 
 lose .'' Have you then forgotten your good examples of 
 virtuous ladies, who made resistance to light love, and 
 all your despising of wanton women ? I cannot believe, 
 Amadour, that you are so far from yourself that God, 
 your conscience, and my honour are altogether dead 
 within you. But if it indeed be as you say, I praise 
 the Divine Goodness for that it has delivered me from 
 the pit into which I wellnigh had fallen, and shown by 
 your speech the wickedness of your heart. For having 
 lost the son of the Fortunate Infante, not only because 
 I am married, but also because I am advised he loves 
 another, and seeing myself wedded to one to whom I 
 cannot, take what pains I may, give my heart, I was 
 resolved entirely and altogether to set my soul and my 
 affections on loving you. And this love I founded on 
 the virtuousness I perceived in you, and to which, by 
 your help, I deem myself to have attained ; and the 
 manner of it is to love my honour and my conscience 
 better than my life. Bottomed upon this rock of 
 honour, I came here determined to make it yet more
 
 122 The For tttnate Lovers. 
 
 sure ; but in a moment, Amadour, you have shown me 
 that in place of pure and shining marble it would have 
 been founded on a quaking sand, or a filthy mire. And 
 though this my strong place, where I hoped to dwell 
 for ever, has been in great part begun, you have 
 suddenly brought it down, even to the dust. Where- 
 fore you must now put aside every hope you had con- 
 cerning me, and resolve yourself, in what place soever 
 I be, not to address me by words or looks, nor ever 
 deem that I can or will change this my determination. 
 All this I say to you with great grief, but if I had so 
 far gone as to swear with you eternal love, I know my 
 heart, and am well assured that in that strife of the 
 soul I should have died. And even now my sorrowful 
 amaze for that you have deceived me is so great that I 
 am persuaded it will make my life a short and sad one. 
 And with these words I bid you farewell, but remember 
 that it is for ever ! " 
 
 I spare you the relation of the grief that Amadour 
 felt at the hearing of these words, for it is not only 
 impossible to write but even to conceive, except to 
 those who have been in like case. And seeing that 
 with this cruel conclusion she would leave him, he took 
 her by the arm, since he well knew that if he suffered 
 this bad opinion of him to remain in her, he would 
 lose her for ever. Wherefore, having put on as solemn 
 a countenance as he was able, he said to her: " Mistress, 
 I have all my life desired to love a woman of honour, 
 and since I have found but little of that commodity, I 
 was fain to make trial of you, to see if you were as 
 worthy to be held in esteem for your virtue as you are 
 to be loved. And this I now know for a certainty, where- 
 fore I give thanks to God, who has directed my love
 
 Day the First. 123 
 
 towards such perfection, entreating at your hands pardon 
 for the folly of my endeavour, seeing that the issue 
 thereof has been to your honour and my great content- 
 ment." Florida, who by his example began to per- 
 ceive the wickedness of men, as she had been slow to 
 believe the evil that was in him, so was now slow to 
 believe the good that was not, and replied : " I would 
 to God you spoke the truth ! But I am not so simple 
 that the estate of marriage in which I am does not let 
 me know that the blindness of a strong desire made 
 you do what you have done. For if God had slacked 
 the reins, I am assured you would not have drawn in the 
 bridle. Those who make search for virtue go on a different 
 road to the one you have taken. But it is enough ; if too 
 lightly I believed in your virtue, it is time I should 
 know the truth, which now delivers me from out of 
 your hands." Thus saying, Florida went forth from 
 the room, and while the night went on did nought else 
 but weep, taking at this change so great grief that her 
 heart had shrewd work to withstand the assaults of 
 love and regret. For though, reason guiding her, she 
 was resolved not to love him any more, yet the heart, 
 which is lord over itself, would by no means allow this, 
 so she was determined to satisfy her affection and con- 
 tinue to love him, and yet to satisfy her honour and 
 never make any sign to him of her love. 
 
 And on the morrow Amadour went forth in such woe 
 as you have heard ; nevertheless his heart, which had not 
 its equal in the world, would not suffer him to despair, 
 but set him on some new means for seeing Florida 
 again, and winning back her favour. Wherefore as he 
 went to the King of Spain, who was at Toledo, he took 
 his way through the county of Aranda, and came
 
 124 '^^^c Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 there one evening very late, and found the Countess in 
 great sadness by reason of the absence of her daughter 
 Florida. And when she saw Amadour she kissed and 
 embraced him as if he had been her own son, as much 
 for the love she bore him as for the suspicion she had 
 that he loved Florida, of whom she made curious inquiry. 
 And he told her the best news he could, but not all the 
 truth, and confessed the love that was between them, 
 which Florida had always kept secret, praying her to 
 give him her help in having tidings of her daughter, 
 and soon to bring her to Aranda. And on the morrow 
 he continued on his journey, and having performed the 
 charges of the King, went to the wars with so changed 
 and sorrowful a countenance that ladies, captains, and 
 all of his acquaintance scarcely recognised him. And 
 henceforth black was his only wear, but of much coarser 
 frieze than was due to his dead wife, whose loss served 
 to conceal what was in his heart. So Amadour passed 
 three or four years without returning at all to Court. 
 And the Countess of Aranda hearing how Florida 
 was changed, and that to see her was pitiful, sent to 
 her, wishing her to return home. But these tidings 
 had the opposite effect, for when Florida heard that 
 Amadour had made manifest the love that was between 
 them to her mother, and that her mother, all good and 
 virtuous as she was, held their love for an honest one, 
 she was in great perplexity. For on the one hand she 
 saw that if she told her mother the whole truth, Ama- 
 dour might get some hurt thereby, than which death 
 would have been preferred by her, for she felt herself 
 to be strong enough to punish him without calling her 
 kinsfolk to her aid. But on the other hand she per- 
 ceived that if she concealed the evil she knew of him
 
 Day the First. 125 
 
 she would be constrained by her mother and all her kin 
 to speak to him and show him a good countenance. And 
 this she feared would but strengthen him in his wicked 
 purpose. But inasmuch as he was far away, she said 
 nothing, and wrote to him when her mother charged her 
 so to do ; all the same these letters of hers let him know 
 pretty plainly that they came from obedience and not 
 good will, and so caused him as much sorrow in the 
 reading as aforetime tidings from her had given him joy. 
 At the end of two or three years, having done so 
 many and so great deeds, that would scarcely be con- 
 tained by all the paper in Spain, he conceived a most 
 daring imagination, not to win the heart of Florida, 
 which he held as lost, but to gain the victory over his 
 enemy, since it was in this manner she showed to him. 
 He put behind him all the counsels of reason, and even 
 the fear of death, of which he would thus make hazard, 
 and this was his fixed resolve. He made himself so 
 esteemed of the Viceroy that he was sent to speak to 
 the King of a certain secret undertaking against 
 Leucate; and before that he had spoken to the King, he 
 declared the matter to the Countess of Aranda, to take 
 her mind upon it. And he came post haste to the 
 county of Aranda, where he was advised was Florida, 
 sending a friend of his secretly to the Countess to make 
 known his approach, and praying her to keep it in 
 great privity, and for him to speak with her at night, 
 so that no one should be advertised thereof. The 
 Countess, being glad on account of his coming, told 
 Florida, and sent her to undress herself in her husband's 
 room, to the intent that she should be ready when the 
 time was come and all others were in bed. Florida, who 
 was by no means recovered from her first fear, made
 
 1 26 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 no sign to her mother, but went apart to an oratory. 
 There she commended herself into the keeping of our 
 Lord, praying Him to preserve her heart from all evil 
 lust. And it then came into her mind that Amadour 
 had often praised her beauty, which, though she had 
 been for a long while sick, was by no means diminished ; 
 so preferring to do hurt to this beauty than to suffer 
 the heart of so good a man by it to be kindled with an 
 evil flame, she took a stone that chanced to be in the 
 chapel, and with it gave herself so hearty a blow that 
 all her face was out of shape. And to the intent that 
 none should suspect that she herself had done it, she, 
 when summoned by her mother, let herself fall with her 
 face to the earth while she was going out of the chapel, 
 and cried with a loud voice. And when the Countess 
 came she found her daughter in a pitiful case, and 
 straightway had her face dressed and bound up. 
 
 After the Countess had led her to her room, she told 
 her to go and hold discourse with Amadour until the 
 company was departed ; and this did Florida, thinking 
 there were others with him. But finding herself all alone 
 and the door shut on her, she was as much vexed as 
 Amadour was glad, since he conceived that by persua- 
 sion or force he would get his desire. And when he 
 had spoken to her, and found her of the same mind as 
 afore, and that she would rather die than change it, 
 maddened with despair, he exclaimed : " I swear to you 
 by God that the fruit of my travail shall not be plucked 
 from me by your nice points of conscience ; for since 
 love, long-suffering, and humble prayers have availed 
 nothing, I will not spare my strength to gain that 
 without which I shall perish." And Florida saw his 
 eyes and the manner of his countenance that they were
 
 Day the First. 1 2 7 
 
 changed, and the fairest face in the world was as red as 
 fire, and his most sweet and pleasant regard was so 
 dreadful to look upon that a consuming flame seemed 
 to blaze within his heart and on his face, and in this 
 phrensy he took within one of his mighty hands her two 
 hands most delicate and weak. She, seeing that all 
 resistance was of no avail, since she was thus straitly 
 held a prisoner that she could not fly, much less make 
 defence, knew not what to do save to seek if there were 
 not in him some traces of his former love by the 
 recollection of which he might forget his cruelty ; 
 wherefore she said to him : " Amadour, though you 
 now hold me for an enemy, I entreat you, by the 
 honourable love I formerly thought you had for me, to 
 give ear before you begin your torture." And when 
 she perceived that he gave ear to her, she went on with 
 her discourse, saying : " Alas, Amadour, to what intent 
 do you seek from me a thing whereby you will take no 
 contentment, and will give me the greatest of all pains.'' 
 You made so good trial of my mind in the 
 time of my youth and beauty, by reason of which 
 you might take some excuse, that I am astonished 
 in this season of my age, and ugliness, and sorrow, you 
 seek for what you cannot find. I am well assured you 
 know my mind that it is not changed, wherefore you 
 cannot gain save by force your desire. And if you 
 look upon my face, and, seeing the manner of it, forget 
 its beauty that was of old, you will not, I think, be 
 wishful of approaching nearer. And if there are in you 
 any remains of bygone love, I am persuaded that pity 
 will conquer your madness. And to this pity, which I 
 have found in you, I make my lamentation and pray for 
 grace, to the intent that you will let me live to the
 
 128 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 end of my days in peace, and in that honour, over 
 which, by your counsel, I am determined to keep watch 
 and ward. For though the love you bore me is turned 
 to hatred, and more for revenge than passion you would 
 fain make me the most wretched of all women, I assure 
 you that this thing shall not be, since against my desire 
 you will compel me to make manifest your wickedness 
 to her who believes you to be so good, and thereby 
 your life shall be put in no small risk." Amadour, 
 breaking into her words, said to her : " If I must needs 
 die, then all the sooner shall I be quit of this torment ; 
 but your misshapen countenance, which I believe to be 
 the work of your own hands, shall not hinder me from 
 working my will, for though you were but bones I 
 would hug them closely to me." And Florida, per- 
 ceiving that sound reason, prayers, and tears availed 
 nothing, and that in his cruelty he would endeavour to 
 accomplish his wicked desire, called to her aid that 
 help she feared as much as death, and cried in a sad 
 and woeful voice for her mother. The Countess, 
 hearing her daughter summon her in such a voice, had 
 great suspicion of what was indeed the truth, and ran 
 into the room as quickly as might be. Amadour, not 
 being as near death as he would have Florida believe, 
 so seasonably abandoned his enterprise, that the lady 
 on coming in found him at the door and Florida far 
 enough from him. Forthwith the Countess asked : 
 "Amadour, what is it.-* Tell me the truth." And he, 
 who was never devoid of invention, with a sad and 
 solemn countenance, answered her : " Alas ! mistress, 
 into what case has Florida fallen .'' Never was I more 
 astonished, for as I have told you, I thought to have 
 had her favour, but now clearly perceive I have none of
 
 Day the First. 129 
 
 it. It appears to me that while she was with you she 
 was no less wise and virtuous than she is now, but she 
 did not then make it a point of conscience to speak 
 with no one, and now that I would fain have looked 
 upon her she would by no means suffer me. And 
 seeing this change towards me, I was assured that it 
 was but a dream, and required her hand that, after the 
 manner of the country, I might kiss it, but this also she 
 would not suffer me to do. I confess that I took her 
 hand with a gentle compulsion and kissed it, and in this 
 I did wrongfully and crave your forgiveness, but naught 
 else did I ask of her. Yet she, as I believe, having 
 determined my death, called you as you have seen ; I 
 know not wherefore, unless she feared some other intent, 
 which I in truth had not. Natheless, mistress, however, 
 that may be, I acknowledge that I have done amiss, for 
 though she ought to love them that serve her well, I 
 alone, who am of all most devoted to her, am exiled 
 from her favour. But I will still be towards you and her 
 as I have always been, and I entreat you to continue 
 me in your good will, since through no fault of mine 
 I have lost hers." The Countess, who half believed 
 and was half in doubt, went to her daughter, and said 
 to her: "Wherefore called you me after this fashion .'*'' 
 Florida replied that she was afraid. And although the 
 Countess made particular inquiry of her, she got no 
 other reply, for Florida, seeing herself escaped from the 
 hands of her enemy, held his ill-success sufficient 
 punishment. 
 
 After that the Countess had for a long while held 
 parley with Amadour, she made him stay with Florida 
 to see what face he would put on it. But he said little 
 to his mistress, save that he thanked her for not telling 
 
 I
 
 I '^o The Fortimatc Lovers. 
 
 her mother the truth, and prayed at least, since she had 
 driven him from out her heart, she would not let another 
 man take his place. And to the first matter of his dis- 
 course she thus replied : "If I had had other means of 
 defending myself except my voice, you would not have 
 heard it ; and you shall have no worse thing from me 
 if }'Ou cease to constrain me as you have done hitherto. 
 And be not afraid lest I love another, for since in the 
 heart which I deemed the most virtuous in the world I 
 have not found that I desired, I believe not I shall find 
 it in any other man." Thus speaking, she bade him 
 farewell. Her mother, though she carefully regarded 
 his face, could come to no conclusion, save that hence- 
 forth she was well assured her daughter had no love for 
 Amadour, and held her so void of reason as to hate 
 everything she herself loved. And from that hour she 
 behaved in such sort towards Florida that she spoke 
 not to her but chidingly for seven whole years, and all 
 this on account of Amadour. So during this time 
 Florida turned the fear she had of being with her 
 husband to a desire not to stir from him, because of her 
 mother's rigorous entreatment of her. But finding this 
 of no avail, she resolved to put a deceit upon Amadour, 
 and, laying aside for a day or two her cold aspect, 
 advised him to make proposals of love to a lady who, 
 she said, had spoken to her of the love that was between 
 them. Now this lady was in the household of the 
 Queen of Spain, and was called Loretta. Amadour, 
 believing this story, and thinking hereby to regain the 
 favour of his mistress, made love to Loretta, who was 
 the wife of a captain, one of the King's viceroys. And 
 she, exceeding glad for that she had gained such a 
 lover, set such store by him, that the rumour of it was
 
 Day the First. 131 
 
 blazed abroad, and even the Countess of Aranda, since 
 she was at Court, was advertised of it, wherefore she 
 ceased henceforth to torment Plorida as had been her 
 custom. And one day Florida heard that this warrior 
 husband of Loretta's was become so jealous that he 
 was determined, as best he might, to kill Amadour ; 
 and she who, despite her altered countenance towards 
 him, could wish him no ill, presently advised him of it. 
 But he, who easily took to his old paths, replied to her 
 that if it was her pleasure to give him three hours of 
 her company every day, he would speak no more with 
 Lor^tta ; but this she would not grant. " Wherefore 
 then," said Amadour, " since you are not willing to give 
 me life, do you trouble yourself to guard me from 
 death .'' Save, indeed, that you hope to cause me 
 greater torments by keeping me alive than a thousand 
 deaths. But though death escape me, I will seek till 
 I find it, for the day of my death shall be the first of 
 my rest." 
 
 About this time came news that the King of Granada 
 had begun to make great war against the King of 
 Spain, so that the King sent the Prince his son, and 
 with him the Constable of Castille and the Duke of 
 Alba, two old and prudent lords. The Duke of Cardona 
 and the Count of Aranda were not willing to stay at 
 home, and so entreated of the King to give them some 
 command ; and this he did according to the dignity of 
 their houses. And for their safe keeping he gave them 
 into the charge of Amadour, who during the war did 
 such wondrous and mighty deeds as seemed to savour 
 rather of despair than bravery. And to come to my 
 story, I will show you how his great courage was proved 
 by the manner of his dying ; for the IMoors, having
 
 132 The Forhmate Lovers. 
 
 made a show of giving battle, and seeing so large an 
 army of Christians, feigned to retreat, whereupon the 
 Spaniards began to pursue them ;^ but the old Con- 
 stable and the Duke of Alba, having a suspicion of 
 their device, kept back against his will the Prince of 
 Spain, so that he did not cross the river. But this, 
 notwithstanding that it was forbidden them, the Duke 
 of Cardona and the Count of Aranda did, and when 
 the Moors perceived that they were pursued of a small 
 company they wheeled round, and with one stroke of a 
 scimitar the Duke of Cardona was slain, and so griev- 
 ously was the Count of Aranda wounded that he was 
 left where he fell for dead. At this Amadour came up 
 so furiously enraged that he broke through all the press 
 of battle, and made take the two bodies and carry them 
 to the camp of the Prince, who grieved for them as if 
 they had been his own brothers. But on searching out 
 their wounds, the Count of Aranda was found to be 
 still alive, and so was carried on a litter to his house, 
 where he lay for a long while sick. And they bore to 
 Cardona the dead body of the Duke. And after having 
 in this manner rescued the two bodies, Amadour took 
 so little heed for himself, that he was at last surrounded 
 on every side by a host of Moors, and no more wishing 
 capture to be made of his body than he had made 
 capture of the body of his mistress, and not to break 
 his faith with God as he had broken it with her ; know- 
 ing that, if he was taken to the King of Granada, he 
 
 ^ This, I think, must be the battle of Pavia, where Francis was taken 
 captive, and Alen9on got the hurt he died of. Whoever Amadour may 
 be, he may well have died there, for scarce a noble house in France but 
 lost a son that day. La Palice, General on that occasion, Bonnivet, 
 Margaret's unvictorious lover (who may be Amadour), and half the chivalry 
 of the kingdom lay dead there.
 
 Day the First. 1 3 3 
 
 would either be constrained to die a cruel death or 
 renounce Christianity, he was determined not to give 
 his enemies the glory of his death or capture. And so 
 kissing the cross of his sword, and commending his soul 
 to God, he drove it home so deeply that it skilled not 
 to give a second blow. So died Amadour, and the 
 sorrow after him was that his valour deserved. And 
 the news of it was noised abroad through all the coasts 
 of Spain, and Florida, who was at Barcelona, where her 
 husband had given command he was to be buried, 
 heard the report thereof And after that she had made 
 for him honourable burial, without speaking to her 
 mother or her stepmother, she became a nun of the 
 Convent of Jesus, taking for her spouse Him who had 
 delivered her from the burning love of Amadour, and 
 from her weariness in the companionship of such a 
 husband. Henceforth she turned all her affections to 
 Godward, and, after for a long while living as a nun, 
 gave up her soul with such gladness as when the bride 
 goeth forth to meet the bridegroom. 
 
 " I am well aware, ladies, that this long novel may 
 have been wearisome to some among you, but if I had 
 wished to tell it after the manner of him who told it me, 
 it would have been much longer. And I entreat you, 
 while you make the virtue of Florida your ensample, to 
 abate somewhat of her hardness of heart, and not to 
 believe too much good of any man, lest when you know 
 to the contrary you be the occasion to him of a cruel 
 death, and to yourselves of a life of sorrow." 
 
 And after that Parlamente had had a long and 
 attentive audience, she said to Hircan : " Is it your 
 opinion that this woman was pressed to the bitter end, 
 and made virtuous resistance ? " " No," said Hircan,
 
 134 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 " for a woman cannot make a feebler resistance than 
 crying out, and had she been where none could hear her 
 I know not how she would have fared ; and if Amadour 
 had had more love and less fear, he would not for so 
 little have left the work undone. And for all this case 
 of yours I am not shaken from what I maintain — that 
 no man who loves with a perfect love, or who is beloved 
 of a lady, can fail to bring matters to a good issue, if 
 he carry himself as he ought. Natheless, I must praise 
 Amadour, insomuch that in some sort he did his duty." 
 •' What duty .? " said Oisille. " Call you it duty for the 
 servant to take by force his mistress, to whom he owes 
 all reverence and obedience .-' " Whereupon Safifredent 
 took up the discourse and said : " When our mistresses 
 sit in state in chamber and hall, holding session upon 
 us at their ease as our judges, then we fall on our knees 
 before them ; in fear and trembling we lead them forth 
 to dance ; so diligently do we serve them that we know 
 their needs before they ask ; so desirous are we to do 
 suit unto them, and so fearful of their displeasure, that 
 those who look upon us pity us, and often hold us as 
 dull-witted as the beasts, and men forsaken of their 
 understanding. Then do they give glory to our ladies, 
 whose visage is so bold, and their speech so fair, that 
 they make those that know them but on the outside 
 both to fear, esteem, and love them. But when we are 
 alone it becomes plain that they are women and we 
 men, and then is mistiness changed to siucetheari, and 
 servant unto lover. To this consents the proverb : 
 
 ' He that serves as best he can 
 Maketh master out of man.' 
 
 They have such honour as men have, who can give it
 
 Day the First. 135 
 
 them and take it away, and they see our long-suffering 
 that it is great ; but it is reasonable that this should 
 have its sure reward, when honour thereby can take no 
 hurt." " You speak not of that true honour," said 
 Longarine, "which is the best contentment for this life; 
 for when all the world call me honourable woman, and 
 I know that I am not, this praise does but increase my 
 shame, and makes me still more to be confounded; and 
 in like manner when men speak evil of me, and I know 
 my innocency, their blame is but my praise." "What- 
 ever you have said," continued Geburon, " I am well 
 persuaded that Amadour was an honourable knight, 
 and a virtuous, and without compare ; and though the 
 names are feigned, I think I can recognise him. But 
 since it was not Parlamente's pleasure to name names, 
 neither is it mine. But be assured that, if he be the 
 man I think, he knew not fear, and his heart was still 
 full of love and bravery." 
 
 Then Oisille said to them all : " So joyously do I 
 esteem this day to have been spent, that if we continue 
 in like fashion on the others, the time will pass all too 
 quick. But see how low is the sun, and the bells of the 
 Abbey have this long while rung to evensong. But I 
 told no one of this since I had rather hear the end of 
 the story than the vesper music." At these words all 
 arose, and when they were come into the church they 
 found there the monks who had awaited them a good 
 hour and more. And when they had heard evensong, 
 they took supper, with much talk of the stories they 
 had heard, each one searching through the byways of 
 his memory, that the following day might be passed in 
 as much delight. And after playing many a game in 
 the meadow, they went to bed, and with much content- 
 ment brought to an end the first day.
 
 DAY THE SECOND. 
 
 ON THE SECOND DAY EACH ONE TELLS THE FIRST CONCEIT 
 THAT RISETH IN HIS BRAIN. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 On the morrow they arose with a great desire of re- 
 turning to the place in which, on the day before, they 
 had received so great pleasure, for so ready was each 
 one's tale that time passed slowly for it to be told. 
 After that they had heard Oisille's reading, and also 
 mass, where they all prayed God to the intent that He 
 might continue to put words into their mouths, they 
 went to dinner, recollecting meanwhile many a notable 
 relation. 
 
 But after dinner, when they had rested in their rooms, 
 they returned at the appointed tim.e to the meadow, 
 where all seemed favourable to their undertaking, and 
 being seated on the grass, Parlamente began to say : 
 " Since I brought yesterday to an end, it is my part to 
 name one who shall begin to-day. And seeing that 
 Oisille, the oldest and wisest of us was the first to 
 speak, I give my vote to the youngest — I say not the 
 most foolish, being assured that if we all follow her 
 example we shall not keep evensong so long awaiting 
 as we did yesterday. Wherefore, Nomerfide, do you 
 give your vote to some one. Nomerfide replied : " I 
 give my vote to Dagoucin, for so wise is he that he 
 would rather die than make a foolish speech." Dagoucin
 
 Day the Second. 1 3 7 
 
 thanked her for the repute in which she held his good 
 sense, and began to say : " The history which I will 
 presently relate to you is to the intent that you may 
 perceive how love blinds the greatest hearts and the 
 noblest, and how difficult is wickedness to be conquered 
 by means howsoever good." 
 
 NOVEL XII. 
 
 A Duke of Florence wotcld have his friend prostitute his sister to 
 him; but in place of love ineets with death. 
 
 Ten years are now overpast since there bore rule 
 in Florence that Duke ^ who had for wife Margaret, 
 bastard daughter to the Emperor. And for that she 
 was so young, that it was not lawful for him to marry 
 her till she grew older, he spent his time with other 
 ladies in the town. Amongst the rest, he was in love 
 with a pretty, wise, and virtuous lady, sister to a gentle- 
 man whom the Duke loved as himself, and whose 
 authority in his house was so great that his word was 
 feared and obeyed as if it were the Dukes. And the 
 Duke had no secret he did not declare unto him, in 
 such sort that he might wellnigh be named his second 
 self 
 
 And the Duke seeing his sister that she was so 
 honourable a woman that, after seeking every way, he 
 could find no means of declaring his love to her, came 
 to the gentleman he loved so well, and said to him : 
 " If there were a thing in the world, my friend, that I 
 
 1 This was Alessandro, the nominee, creature, and son-in-law of Charles 
 v., the half brother of Catherine de Medici ; illegitimate, dissolute, with 
 black blood in his veins ; such as he was, the first Duke of Florence.
 
 i.;S The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 would not do for you, I should fear to make known my 
 mind to you, much less to ask your aid for the accom- 
 plishing of my desire. But so great a love do I bear 
 you, that if I had mother, wife, or child, who could be 
 effectual for the saving of your life, I would so use them 
 rather than let you die in torment ; and I esteem your 
 love towards me is like to mine, and if I, who am master 
 over you, love you so well, you at least love me no less. 
 Wherefore I have a secret to show you, from concealing 
 which I am fallen into the case you now see, and from 
 which I hope amendment either through your offices or 
 my death." 
 
 The gentleman hearing this discourse of his master, 
 and seeing his grief not feigned, and his face all covered 
 with tears, took so great compassion on him, that he 
 said : " O, my lord, I am your creature ; all the content- 
 ments and all the honour I have in the world come 
 from you ; you can speak to me as to yourself, well 
 assured that whatever is in my power is likewise in 
 yours." Whereupon the Duke declared the love he bore 
 his sister, that it was so strong and fierce that if he did 
 not, by his means, possess her, he saw not how he could 
 live any longer. For he knew well that with such as 
 her prayers and gifts would not avail anything. Where- 
 fore he prayed the gentleman, if he loved as he was 
 beloved, that he avouIcI find some means of getting for 
 him this delight, which he never hoped to have in any 
 other way. The brother, loving his sister and the 
 honour of his house better than the pleasure of the 
 Duke, would fain have made him some remonstrance, 
 entreating him to use him in all other straits, but not 
 to ask of him this abominable thing, to compass the 
 dishonour of his own blood, and saying that his heart
 
 Day the Second. 139 
 
 and his honour alike forbade him take any part therein. 
 The Duke, inflamed with unbearable displeasure, and 
 biting his nails, replied in great wrath : " So be it then, 
 and since I find no friendship at all in you, I know how 
 to play my part." The gentleman, well advised of his 
 master's cruelty, was afraid, and said to him : " My 
 lord, since it is your pleasure, I will speak to her and 
 bring you her reply." And the Duke returned : "As 
 you love my life, so will I love yours," and so left him. 
 
 The gentleman knew well what was the intent of 
 these words. And for a day or two he considered what 
 was best to be done, without coming into the presence 
 of the Duke. On the one hand there came before him 
 all that was due to his master, the contentments and 
 honours he had received of him ; on the other, the 
 fame of his house, the virtuousness and chastity of his 
 sister, whom he was well persuaded would not listen to 
 this wickedness, unless by some cozenage of his own 
 finding she was overcome by force, and this such an in- 
 famous deed that he and his would be for ever disgraced 
 by it. And tossed from one side to the other, he at last 
 determined rather to die than do his sister, one of 
 the best women in all Italy, such an evil turn. But he 
 thought to do still better if he delivered his country 
 from such a tyrant, who would forcibly put this stain 
 upon his house, for he held for certain that if he did not 
 slay the Duke his own life and the lives of his kinsfolk 
 would be in small security. Wherefore, without parley 
 with his sister or any beside on the matter, he took 
 counsel with himself how, by one blow, he might best 
 save his life and avenge his shame. And at the end of 
 two days he went to the Duke and told him he had 
 used such order with his sister that, after much toil on
 
 140 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 his part, she had at last agreed to do him pleasure, if he 
 would keep the matter so secret that none, save her 
 brother, should be advertised thereof. 
 
 The Duke, desiring to hear this news, easily believed 
 it, and embracing the messenger, promised him all he 
 might ask for, and entreated him presently to bring 
 affairs to a conclusion, and together they appointed a 
 day.^ Whether the Duke was glad, it skills not to ask, 
 and when he saw that the long-desired night drew near, 
 on which he had good hopes of gaining the victory over 
 her whom he aforetime deemed unconquerable, he went 
 apart very early with the gentleman, forgetting not 
 nightcaps and perfumed shirts, and such like gear, the 
 best that he had. And when all were gone away, he 
 went with the gentleman to his sister's lodging, and 
 entering in came into a bravely ordered chamber. The 
 gentleman then said to him : " My lord, I go seek one 
 who will not enter into this room without blushing, but 
 before morning I hope she will be assured of you." So 
 saying he left the Duke and went to his own room, 
 where he found one of his people, to whom he said : 
 " Have you a heart bold enough to follow me whither I 
 would be avenged on my greatest enemy } " The fel- 
 low, knowing not what he was called upon to do, 
 replied, " Why, aye sir, were it against my lord Duke." 
 W'hereupon the gentleman led him away so suddenly 
 that he had no time to take other arms, but only a 
 dagger, which he wore on him. And when the Duke 
 heard their return, thinking that the gentleman bore 
 with him her for whom he lusted, he opened wide both 
 the curtain and his eyes to look upon and receive the 
 expected blessing ; but in place of seeing the preserva- 
 1 It was the evening of the 6th January 1537.
 
 Day the Second. 141 
 
 tion of his life, he beheld the instrument of his early- 
 death. And this was a naked sword, which the gentle- 
 man held in his hands, and with which he struck the 
 Duke, who was clad only in his shirt. But he, wanting 
 in arms and not courage, got behind the bed, and taking 
 the gentleman by the middle, said to him : " Is it thus 
 you keep your promise ? " And having none other 
 weapons save teeth and nails, he bit him in the thumb, 
 and by the force of his arm so defended himself that 
 they both fell on to the floor beside the bed. Then the 
 gentleman, not trusting overmuch in himself, called 
 upon his follower, who, finding the Duke and his master 
 intermingled so confusedly that he knew not which of 
 the two to strike, pushed them with his feet into the 
 middle of the room, and essayed to cut the Duke's 
 throat for him. But he still defended himself till loss of 
 blood made him so weak as not to be able to do any 
 more, whereupon the gentleman and his follower threw 
 him on the bed, and there, with blows from the dagger, 
 they made an end of killing him. Then drawing the 
 curtain, they went forth and shut up the dead body in 
 the chamber. 
 
 And when he saw himself victorious over his great 
 enemy, by whose death he thought to have freed the 
 commonwealth, his work seemed to him but half done, 
 if he used not in like manner the five or six who were 
 kinsfolk of the Duke. To which intent he spoke to his 
 follower, that he should go seek them one by one, and 
 do on them like vengeance. But his follower replied, 
 having neither courage nor folly for such an under- 
 taking : " It seems to me that for this present time you 
 have achieved enough, and would do better to think 
 of saving your own life than depriving others of theirs.
 
 142 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 For if we take as much time to put an end to each one 
 of them as we did to slay the Duke, the day will dawn 
 upon our enterprise unfinished, even if we chance to find 
 them undefended." The gentleman, whom a bad con- 
 science rendered fearful, gave ear to his follower, and 
 taking him alone, went to a Bishop, whose charge was 
 that of Portreeve, to give authoritiy for posting. To 
 him the gentleman said : " This evening tidings came 
 to me that my brother was at the point of death, and 
 therefore I asked leave of the Duke to go to him, which 
 he has granted me. So I pray that you give orders 
 that I may have two good horses, and that the town 
 gates may be opened to me." The Bishop, hearing his 
 entreaty, and the command of the Duke, his master, gave 
 him forthwith a paper, by means of which the horses 
 were granted him and the gates opened, even as he 
 had desired. And in place of going to see any brother 
 of his, he went straight to V^enice, where he healed him 
 of the bites the Duke had given, and after that journeyed 
 to Turkey. 
 
 But on the morrow all the servants of the Duke, 
 seeing how slow he was to return, had good suspicion 
 that he was gone to see some woman, but since he 
 tarried so long away made search for him in all the 
 quarters of the town. And the poor Duchess, who 
 began to bear her Duke great love, hearing that 
 they searched and found him not, was exceeding 
 troubled. But when the gentleman, his familiar friend, 
 was seen no more than he, they went to his house and 
 there sought for him. And finding blood at the door 
 of his room, they entered in, but found no one who 
 could give them any tidings. And following the trace 
 of blood, these poor servants of the Duke came to the
 
 Day tJie Second. 143 
 
 chamber where he lay, and the door was shut. And 
 when it was broken open they saw the whole place 
 that it was full of blood, and drawing aside the curtain 
 they found the body stretched out upon the bed and 
 sleeping its last sleep. Then were the servants sorely 
 grieved, and having borne the body to the palace, they 
 found there the Bishop, who told them how that the 
 gentleman had last night fled the town on pretext of 
 seeing his brother. Whereby it was clearly ascertained 
 that it was he who had done this murder. And it was 
 also proved that his sister had not so much as heard 
 him speak of it, and she, although in great astonishment 
 at what he had done, yet on account of it loved him all 
 the more, since he had not spared to make hazard of 
 his life, that she might be delivered from so cruel an 
 enemy. And more and more honourably and virtuously 
 did she continue in her former manner of living, for 
 though, by reason of the sequestration of her goods, she 
 was poor, yet did she and her sister get as honourable 
 and rich husbands as were in Italy, and henceforth have 
 always lived in good repute. 
 
 " By this, ladies, you may know what fear you should 
 have of Love, since, though he is but a boy, he takes 
 delight in tormenting prince and peasant, strong and 
 w^eak, alike ; blinding them all, so that they become 
 forgetful of God and their conscience, and at the last, 
 of life itself And princes and those set in authority 
 should beware of doing displeasure to those under 
 them. For there is none so small that he cannot do 
 hurt, if God w^ould by him take vengeance on the sinner, 
 and none so great that he should entreat evil those who 
 are in his hands." 
 
 This relation was well listened to by all the company,
 
 144 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 but it engendered amongst them diverse opinions ; for 
 some maintained the gentleman to have done his duty 
 in saving his life and the honour of his sister, and at the 
 same time freeing his country from a tyrant ; ' others 
 said no, since it was foul ingratitude to put to death him 
 who had given this gentleman so many honours. The 
 ladies said he was a good brother and a good citizen to 
 boot ; the men, that he was a traitorous and wicked 
 servant ; and mighty pleasant hearing were the con- 
 clusions on both sides. But the ladies, as they are 
 wont, spoke rather by passion than sound logic, affirm- 
 ing the Duke to have been worthy of death, and calling 
 him who had given the blow exceeding happy. Where- 
 fore, seeing the great disputation that was come of it, 
 Dagoucin said to them : " Oddsfish, ladies, enough of 
 disputation about a thing gone-by and of the past ; 
 take you care lest your beauty bring about as dreadful 
 murders as that I have told you of" Whereupon 
 Parlamente replied to him : La Belle Dame sans Meixy 
 would teach us that few folk die of this pleasant sick- 
 ness." ^ " Would to God," said Dagoucin, " that all you 
 ladies here present were to know this position how false 
 it is ! And then I am assured they would not desire to 
 be named Sans Mercy, nor to be like that unbelieving 
 woman who, for want of a gracious word, left her poor 
 lover to his death." "Would you then," said Parla- 
 
 ^ Tyrannicide was not considered a crime in Italy, rather as Guicciardini 
 holds, supremely praiseworthy. Readers of Corio, and readers of Mr 
 Symonds, will remember the pathetic account of young Olgiati of Milan, 
 who slew the tyrant Galeazzo Maria Sforza, the violator of his sister's 
 honour. "Mors acerba ! " he cried, "fama perpetua. Stabit vetus 
 niemoria facti." 
 
 2 " Si gracieuse maladie 
 
 Ne met gueres de gens a mort." 
 
 — La Belle Dame sans Mercy, Alain Chartier.
 
 Day the Second. 145 
 
 mente, " that, to save the life of one who affirms he 
 loves us, we should risk our honour and conscience ? " 
 " That by no means is my intent," answered Dagoucin, 
 " for he who loves with a perfect love had rather wound 
 himself than his lady's honour. Wherefore I am of 
 opinion that an honourable and gracious reply can but 
 increase virtue and better the conscience, and he is no 
 true lover who seeks aught else." " All the same," said 
 Ennasuitte, "all your prayers do but begin with honour 
 and end with its contrary. And if all who are here 
 present will tell the truth, I will believe them on their 
 oath." Hircan swore he had never loved another man's 
 wife, but only his own. So said Simontault, and added 
 that he had often wished all women to be surly except 
 his own wife. Geburon said to him : " Verily you 
 deserve that yours should be such as you desire others ; 
 but, as for me, I can with good conscience swear to you 
 that I have only loved one woman, whom I would 
 rather see die than that she should do anything to make 
 me have less regard for her. For my love was founded 
 only on her virtue, wherefore I did not wish to see any 
 stain thereon for the sake of my pleasure." Whereupon 
 Safifredent began to laugh, saying: " I thought, Geburon, 
 that your good sense and your love for your wife would 
 have saved you from being a gallant, but I see that it is 
 not so, since you make use of our terms of art, whereby 
 we deceive the keenest and gain a hearing from the 
 most prudent. And where is the woman to close 
 her ears when we begin our passages with honour and 
 virtue .-• For if we were to plainly show them our hearts, 
 a good many now welcome amongst the ladies would be 
 poorly accounted of by them. But we cover our devil 
 with the bravest angel we can find. And beneath this 
 
 K
 
 146 TJie Fortunate Lovei's. 
 
 covering, before we are discovered, we have some 
 mighty pretty entertainment. Perchance indeed we 
 may so skilfully handle their hearts, that thinking they 
 are on the straight road to virtue, they have neither 
 means nor time to draw back their feet, when they find 
 themselves on the threshold of vice." " Faith," said 
 Geburon, " I thought you other than you are, and that 
 virtue gave you more pleasure than pleasure itself" 
 *' What say you," replied Saffredent, " is there then a 
 greater virtue than to love as God has commanded us ? 
 Methinks that it is much 'better to love a woman as a 
 woman, than after the fashion of many to make of her 
 an idol." But the ladies were all on the side of Geburon, 
 and would have Saffredent keep silence. So he said : 
 " To speak no more will be an easy burden to me, for I 
 have been so evil entreated in your talk, that I wish not 
 to return to it." " Your evil thoughts," answered Lon- 
 garine, " are the cause of your evil treatment. For 
 what virtuous woman would have you for her lover 
 after the manner of your discourse .'' " " There have 
 been women," he replied, " who have not found me tedi- 
 ous, and yet would not yield to you in virtue ; but let 
 us speak no more of it, so that my anger may displease 
 neither you nor myself. Let us see to whom Dagoucin 
 will give his vote." And he said : " I give it to Parla- 
 mente, for I think that she more than any beside ought 
 to know what is honourable and perfect friendship." 
 " Since I am chosen," said Parlamente, " for the third 
 story, I will tell you what befell a lady who hath alway 
 been of my acquaintance, and all whose thoughts are 
 open to me."
 
 Day the Second. 147 
 
 NOVEL xiir. 
 
 How a sea-captaiii served love with the sauce of religion. 
 
 In the household of the Regent, mother to King 
 Francis, there Hved a lady of great devotion, married to 
 a gentleman in this point like to her. But otherwise 
 they differed, for he was old, and she was young and 
 pretty ; yet did she love and serve him all as if he had 
 been a brave young gallant. And that he might have 
 no cause for sorrow or weariness, she set herself to live 
 as a woman of his own age, putting from her all com- 
 pany, fine gear, dances, and pastimes, in which young 
 women are wont to take delight ; but all her delight 
 and pleasure was to do service to God, on which account 
 her husband had for her such love that she ruled as she 
 would both him and his household. And one day it 
 chanced that he said that from his youth up he had 
 been desirous of journeying to Jerusalem, and would 
 have her mind on the matter. She, who asked naught 
 but to please him, said : " Dear husband, since God has 
 been pleased to give us no children, and has granted 
 us to enjoy a sufficiency of worldly wealth, it would be 
 much to my liking that we should use a part of it in 
 making this sacred journey ; for go where you may, I 
 am determined never to leave you." At this the good 
 man was so contented that already he deemed himself 
 on the top of Calvary. 
 
 And while their talk ran on this, there came to Court 
 a gentleman who had often been in the wars against 
 the Turks, and was now forwarding with the King an 
 enterprise against one of their towns, which being taken 
 would be greatly to the advantage of Christendom
 
 148 The Forhinate Lovers. 
 
 And the old gentleman asked him about his journey. 
 And when he had heard what the intent of it was, he 
 inquired whether, after this had been accomplished, he 
 had any purpose of making another to Jerusalem, 
 whither he and his wife had a great desire to go. The 
 captain was much pleased to hear of their intent, and 
 undertook to conduct them thither, and to keep the 
 affair secret. Then the time seemed long to the husband, 
 till he should find his good wife and tell her of these 
 passages, since she had no less desire to achieve the 
 pilgrimage than he. And on that account she often 
 held parley with the captain, who, paying more regard 
 to her than to her words, fell so deep in love that often 
 in his talk of sea-voyages he would confound Marseilles 
 with the Archipelago, and meaning to say ship would 
 say horse, like one who is ravished out of his senses ; 
 yet he found her of such a complexion that he durst 
 not make any sign. And this concealment bred such 
 an inward fire, that he would often fall sick, in which 
 case the good lady was as careful of him, her guide, as 
 of a roadside cross ; and would visit him so frequently 
 that he, perceiving her to have a regard for him, was 
 cured without need of medicaments beside. But certain 
 folk, knowing the captain as rather famed for a brave 
 and courtly comrade than a good Christian, marvelled 
 within themselves how this pious lady could make such 
 account of him. And seeing him to have quite changed 
 his manner of living, and to often go to churches, 
 sermons, and confession, they had a suspicion that all 
 this was to the end that thereby he might gain the 
 lady's favour, and could not restrain themselves from 
 saying as much to him. Whereupon the captain, fear- 
 ing that if anything of this came to her ears he should
 
 Day the Second. 149 
 
 be banished from her presence, said to her and her 
 husband that he was soon to be despatched by the 
 King on his journey, and that he had several things for 
 their hearing ; but, to the intent that their own under- 
 taking might be kept secret, he was fain not to hold 
 parley with him and his wife in a public manner, and 
 therefore entreated them to send for him when they 
 were both gone to bed. And this the gentleman found 
 reasonable, and failed not every evening to go to rest in 
 good time. 
 
 And when all their people were gone to bed, they 
 would send for the captain, and make their plans for 
 the journey to Jerusalem, in the midst of which, from 
 sheer devotion, the husband would often go to sleep. 
 The captain, seeing the old gentleman asleep, and him- 
 self sitting on a chair near to her whom he held for the 
 fairest and most virtuous woman in the world, was so 
 cut to the heart by his dread and desire of speaking 
 that he would often altogether lose the power of speech. 
 But, lest the lady should see something of this, he 
 would set himself to talk about the holy places of Jeru- 
 salem, where were such signs of the love Christ Jesus 
 had towards us. And so by his talk of this love he 
 concealed his own, looking upon the lady with sighs 
 and tears, of which she understood nothing. But, 
 beholding his devout visage, she held him for so holy a 
 man, that she prayed him tell her what path it was he 
 had taken, and by what means he had come to this so 
 great love of God. He thereupon made the following 
 declaration : — " He was a poor gentleman who, that he 
 might attain to riches and honour, had forgotten his 
 conscience, and had taken to wife a woman nearly akin 
 to him by blood, for that she had great wealth, though
 
 1 50 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 she was old and ugly, and he loved her not ; and when 
 he had spent all her substance he had gone to sea to 
 look for adventures, and had done so much by his toil 
 that he was come to a good and honourable estate. 
 But since he had been of her acquaintance, she, herself, 
 had been the cause, by her holy words and good en- 
 sample, of a change in the manner of his life. And 
 that above all he was determined, if he came back from 
 his present enterprise, to take her husband and herself 
 to Jerusalem ; to satisfy in some sort his grievous sins 
 past, which he had now brought to a close, save that he 
 had not yet made satisfaction to his wife, but yet had 
 good hope of soon being reconciled with her." All this 
 discourse was mighty pleasant to the lady, but above 
 all she rejoiced, inasmuch as she had drawn such a man 
 to the love and fear of God, And until he set forth 
 from Court, these long parleys continued each and every 
 evening, without his ever opening his mind to her. 
 And he gave her as a gift a crucifix, praying her that 
 whenever she looked upon it she would be mindful of 
 him. 
 
 So the hour of his departure drew nigh, and when he 
 had taken leave of the husband, who was falling asleep, 
 he came to bid farewell to the lad}^, in whose eyes he 
 saw tears, for the honourable friendship she bore him. 
 But this made his passion to be so unbearable, for that 
 he might not make it manifest, that in bidding her fare- 
 well he fell, as if he had been a-swoon, into so great a 
 sweat, that not only his eyes but his whole body seemed 
 to pour forth tears. And so, without a word, he de- 
 parted ; and the lady marvelled greatly, for such a sign 
 of regret she had never before seen. All the same for 
 this she did not change her good opinion, and alwa}-s
 
 Day the Second. 1 5 1 
 
 remembered him in her orisons. But at the end of a 
 month, as she was returning to her lodging, she fell in 
 with a gentleman who gave her a letter from the captain, 
 entreating her to read it by herself, and said that he 
 had gone on board, well determined to accomplish 
 something pleasing to the King and of service to 
 Christendom ; and as for himself, he was come back 
 from Marseilles to put the affairs of the captain in order. 
 And the lady went apart to a window, and opening the 
 letter found it to be two sheets of paper covered on 
 either side ; and this was the manner of it : — 
 
 " My long delay and silence have left none, 
 Or hope or means of consolation, 
 Save that I speak and tell you all my mind, 
 And of the thoughts that are therein enshrined. 
 And now that I am all alone, and far 
 From you my hope, and have no guiding star 
 To rule the course ; needs must the words should go 
 And strive for me, since verily no moe 
 My eyes behold her who was all my life ; 
 Go, then, good letter, and make plain the strife 
 And clamours of my heart ; for if I keep 
 Them close concealed, then to my last long sleep 
 I shall begone. O all too ready wit ! 
 That wast most fearful, and the cause of it 
 Whereby I spoke not to you ; for I thought 
 Better to die in silence than give aught 
 Of grief to her I love, and was content 
 That for her good my poor life should be spent. 
 But yet again — what if I die and give 
 Some pain to her for whom alone I live.'' 
 And this my promise was most certainly 
 That when the present toil was happily 
 Come to fulfilment, then I would fare back 
 And guide your footsteps on the sacred track ; 
 Until at last you made your orison 
 Upon that holy mountain named Sion.
 
 152 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 But if I die no hand shall lead you there, 
 
 And seeing this, I will by no means dare 
 
 To bring to nothing what is next your heart. 
 
 And this thing done that holds us now apart 
 
 I will return and live then for your sake, 
 
 But doing so my heart is forced to make 
 
 Confession of my love, that it is sore. 
 
 O words most daring, fearful now no more. 
 
 What would you do ? Or are you fain to show 
 
 The greatness of my love ? Then you must know 
 
 You have not power to tell the thousandth part ; 
 
 But tell her this, her eyes have used my heart 
 
 In such sort that it takes its life alone 
 
 From her, unto such languor hath it grown. 
 
 Alas ! poor words and faint. 
 
 It is not yours to show her the constraint 
 
 Her eyes have on my heart. At least say this, 
 
 Her high regard so strong and mighty is. 
 
 That in her presence all words went astray, 
 
 And day was night, and night was full noon-day. 
 
 And when I fain would speak of my desire. 
 
 My words did run upon the Northern Fire. 
 
 And also say : my fear of thy displeasure, 
 
 This shut my lips, this put a bound and measure 
 
 Upon our parley, and my supreme love 
 
 Full well deserving note in Heaven above, 
 
 For it in virtue had foundation, 
 
 Hence should not be a secret benison, 
 
 But open glory, being that your attire 
 
 Is always virtue, wherefore my desire 
 
 Is virtuous likewise. No light love have I 
 
 Bottomed on beauty that one day must die ; 
 
 Much less in me doth dwell of lust the flame 
 
 That would for pleasure work you sin and shame. 
 
 I had much rather die in this adventure 
 
 Than know your honour less by my calenture. 
 
 But if your love 1 have not, and can't gain, 
 
 It shall be my contentment to remain 
 
 Your faithful servant, till once more I see
 
 Day the Second. 153 
 
 My mistress, and with great humility 
 
 Do her my service. And if nothing more 
 
 Fall to my lot, I shall at least adore 
 
 You as my goddess, wherefore doth arise 
 
 From off the altar of my sacrifice 
 
 The savour of a burning heart and soul. 
 
 And while the waters of the sea do roll 
 
 Betwixt us, that you may be of me sure 
 
 This diamond I send, as strong and pure 
 
 As is your heart; so to my joy and pleasure 
 
 I would you make this jewel fitly measure 
 
 Your whitest finger. Wherefore, diamond, say, 
 
 A lover sends me here from far away. 
 
 In steadfast hope some great renown to gain 
 
 Whereby unto your favour he'd attain." 
 
 And having read this from beginning to end she was 
 much astounded at the captain's love, since she had 
 never had any suspicion thereof. And seeing the 
 beauty of the diamond and the ring of black enamel, she 
 was in great perplexity as to what she should do with it. 
 But after considering the matter through the whole 
 night, she was very glad not to have any opportunity of 
 giving him an answer, since she thought there was no 
 need to add this trouble of an unfavourable reply 
 to the charges of the King's he had in hand ; and so, 
 although she was resolved to refuse him, she left it till 
 his return. Yet was the diamond a great perplexity to 
 her, for she was not accustomed to adorn herself at the 
 expense of any but her husband. Wherefore, being of 
 a good understanding, she determined to draw from the 
 jewel some profit to the captain's conscience, and so 
 despatched a servant of hers to his wife, pretending that 
 the letter she sent by him was written by a nun of Tar- 
 rascon. And the letter was to this intent : 
 
 " Mistress, your husband a short while before he
 
 154 ^-^^^ Fortwiate Lovers. 
 
 embarked passed by here ; and after making confession 
 of his sins and receiving his Creator like a good Chris- 
 tian, he told me a thing that was on his conscience — 
 namely, the sorrow he had for that he had not loved 
 you as he ought. And, at parting, he prayed and im- 
 plored me to send you this letter and the diamond, 
 which he will have you keep for the love of him, assuring 
 you that if God grant him a safe return from his journey, 
 no wife shall be more kindly entreated than you ; 
 and this stone of steadfastness shall be security for 
 him. I pray you remember him in your prayers, since 
 in mine he shall have a place for the remainder of my 
 days." 
 
 So, when this letter was finished and signed with the 
 nun's name, it was sent by the lady to the captain's wife. 
 And when the good old woman saw the letter and the 
 ring, one need not ask how she wept with joy and 
 regret at being loved by her husband, when she could 
 no longer see him. And kissing the ring more than a 
 thousand times, and watering it with her tears, she 
 blessed God for that he had brought back to her the 
 love of her husband, now at the end of her days, when 
 she had thought it altogether lost to her. And she gave 
 good thanks also to the nun, who had done so much for 
 her, and made her the best answer she could. This the 
 serving-man bore back to his mistress, who was not able 
 to read it, or listen to what he told her, without much 
 laughter. And so contented was she to have profitably 
 got rid of the diamond to the reunion of the captain 
 and his wife, that she would not for a kingdom have 
 done otherwise. 
 
 A short while after there came tidings of the defeat 
 and death of the poor captain ; how he was deserted of
 
 Day the Second. 155 
 
 them that should have borne him aid, and his enter- 
 prises revealed by the men of Rhodes, who above all 
 should have kept it secret. All those who had landed, 
 and they were eighty, were killed ; am.ong them being 
 a gentleman named John, and a Turk who had the 
 devout lady for his godmother, when he was baptised, 
 and both of whom she had sent on this journey with the 
 captain. The former of these was killed hard-by the 
 captain, and the Turk, with fifteen arrow wounds, saved 
 himself by swimming to the French vessels. And by 
 him alone was learned the truth of the whole affair — 
 namely, that a gentleman, whom the captain had taken 
 for his comrade and familiar friend, having done him 
 good service with the King and the nobles of France, 
 as soon as he saw that the captain was landed, went 
 back with his ships to deep water. And when the 
 captain saw that his enterprise was discovered, and that 
 more than four thousand Turks were at hand, be began 
 to retreat. But the gentleman in whom he had such 
 trust seeing that, by his death, he would get the whole 
 charge and profit of this great armament, called to him 
 all the captains and addressed them to the effect that it 
 was not right to make hazard of the King's ships and 
 the brave men in them, for the sake only of eighty or a 
 hundred ; and they, in whom there was no courage, 
 held to this opinion. And the captain, seeing that the 
 more he called to them the farther did they go, turned 
 again upon the Turks, and though he stood in sand up 
 to his knees, so valiantly did he do battle, that it seemed 
 as if he was about to defeat all the host of his enemies, 
 of which his traitorous comrade had more fear than 
 hope. At last, despite his valour, he received so many 
 wounds from those who durst not approach nearer than
 
 156 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 bow-shot distance, that he began to lose blood. Where- 
 upon, seeing the weakness of these true Christian men, 
 the Turks came upon them with the scimitar ; neverthe- 
 less, as God gave them strength, they fought unto the 
 end. The captain called the gentleman named John, 
 whom his mistress had entrusted to him, and the Turk 
 also ; and fixing the point of his sword in the earth, fell 
 on his knees before it, kissing and embracing the cross, 
 and saying thus : " Lord, take into Thy hands the soul 
 of one who hath given his life for the exaltation of Thy 
 name." The gentleman named John, seeing by these 
 words that life was failing him, took him and the sword 
 which he held into his arms, to the intent that he might 
 give him aid ; but a Turk cut through both his thighs 
 from behind, and crying, with a loud voice : " We go, 
 captain, to Paradise, and there shall behold Him for 
 whom we died," he became the captain's comrade in 
 death as he had been in life. The Turk, perceiving 
 that he could do no service to the one or the other, and 
 having fifteen wounds from arrows, turned to the ships 
 and demanded to be taken on board. But this, although 
 he alone was left of eighty, the captain's traitorous 
 companion refused him ; but being an exceeding good 
 swimmer, he went on till he was taken up by a small 
 ship, and after some time was cured of his wounds. 
 And by means of this poor stranger the truth was made 
 known, altogether to the honour of the dead captain, 
 and to the disgrace of his companion. And the King 
 and all honourable men, when they heard the report, 
 esteemed his wickedness so great that they thought he 
 deserved death, howsoever a cruel one it might be. But 
 when he came, he spread abroad so many lying rumours 
 and bribes that not only did he escape punishment, but
 
 Day the Second. 1 5 7 
 
 received the office of him the latchet of whose shoes he 
 was not worthy to unloose. 
 
 And when these pitiful tidings were brought to Court, 
 the Regent, who had great liking for the captain, was 
 mighty sorry ; so likewise was the King and all of his 
 fellowship. And she whom he loved best of all hearing 
 the strange, pitiful, and Christian manner of his death, 
 changed the chiding she intended to have given him 
 into tears and lamentations, wherein her husband bore 
 her company, for he thereby lost all hope of journeying 
 to Jerusalem. I would not forget that a maiden who 
 lived in their household and loved the gentleman named 
 John, on the very day on which the two were slain, 
 came to her mistress and told her she had dreamed that 
 her lover, all clad in white apparel, had come to bid her 
 farewell, and that he and the captain were in Paradise.^ 
 But when she knew that this dream was the truth, she 
 was in such grief that her mistress had enough to do to 
 console her. At the end of some time the Court went 
 to Normandy, where the captain had lived, whereupon 
 his widow failed not to come and do her reverence to the 
 Regent. And to the end that she might lead her into 
 the Presence, the widow addressed herself to the lady 
 whom her husband had loved so much. And while 
 
 ^ There was no firmer believer in the truth of dreams than Margaret. 
 She relates in her letters how, at the time the king's little daughter, 
 Charlotte, died, before the news could reach him, Francis, under the walls 
 of Pavia, three nights running, beheld her in a dream, and saw the 
 beautiful sorrow of farewell on her angelic face, and heard her cry three 
 times, "Adieu, mon Roy, je voys en Paradis." And when her brother 
 died, before any dared to tell her the heavy news, Margaret divined it 
 from a dream she had, in which the King appeared to her. Again, in 
 later years, when Margaret was dying, in great heaviness of spirit, 
 one night her melancholy was consoled by the dream of a beautiful woman 
 clad in white, holding out in her hand a wreath of singular unearthly 
 flowers, which appeared to Margaret the promise of immortality.
 
 1 58 TJie Fortttnate Lovers. 
 
 they were awaiting the appointed hour in a church, the 
 Avidow began bewailing and praising her husband, say- 
 ing, among other things: "Alas! madam, mine is the 
 greatest woe that ever befel a wife, for when he was 
 beginning to love me more than he had ever done, God 
 took him from me." So saying she showed her the ring 
 which, as a sign of his perfect love, she wore on her 
 finger, and all this with many tears. Thereupon the 
 lady, notwithstanding the grief she felt, was so fain to 
 laugh for the happy issue of her deceit, that she could 
 not bring the widow into the Presence, but entrusted 
 her to some one else, and betook herself to a side- 
 chapel until her laughing fit was over. 
 
 " Methinks, ladies, that those to whom like things are 
 given, should use them in like manner, for they will 
 find out that to do good is pleasant. So one should 
 not accuse this lady of deceit, but rather esteem her 
 sense, which turned to good a thing which was worth 
 nothing." " Call you," said Nomerfide, " a rare diamond 
 of two hundred crowns worth nothing } I would have 
 you assured that, if it had fallen into my hands, neither 
 his wife nor his kinsfolk should have got so much as a 
 sight of it. There is nothing which appertaineth more 
 strictly to any one than that which is given. The 
 gentleman was dead, none knew of it, and she would 
 not have made the poor old lady shed so many tears." 
 " In good faith," said Hircan, "you are in the right, for 
 there are certain women who, to show themselves for 
 better than they really are, do good deeds openly 
 against their natural complexion, for we all know that 
 nothing is as covetous as a woman. All the same their 
 vanity oftentimes gets the mastery over their covetous- 
 ness, and then they are forced to do things which go
 
 Day the Second. 159 
 
 sorely against the grain. And I believe that she who 
 
 sent the diamond away was not worthy of wearing it." 
 
 *' Not so fast, prithee," said Oisille.i " I suspect I know 
 
 who she is, wherefore, I entreat you, condemn her not 
 
 without a hearing." " Mistress," replied Hircan, " I do 
 
 not condemn her ; but if the gentleman was as virtuous 
 
 as you say, she would be honoured by having such a 
 
 lover, but perchance one less worthy than he had her so 
 
 tight by the finger that the ring could not get on." 
 
 "Verily," said Ennasuitte, "she would have done well 
 
 to have kept it, since no one was advised thereof." 
 
 " What," said Geburon, " if only no one is advised 
 
 thereof, are all things lawful to lovers } " 
 
 ****** 
 
 " What, Geburon," said Hircan, " since when have 
 you turned preacher ? Such was not aforetime the 
 manner of your discourse." " It is true," replied Ge- 
 buron, "that I have just now spoken the very opposite 
 to the deliverances of my whole life ; but since I am 
 grown old and my teeth are too weak to chew the 
 venison, I advise the young deer to beware of the 
 huntsmen, that I may give satisfaction in my old age 
 for the sins of my youth." " We thank you, Geburon," 
 said Nomerfide, " for that you have given us this advice 
 for our profit, but we cannot hold ourselves under great 
 obligation to you, since such was not the manner of 
 your discourse to her whom you loved ; it is a sign 
 therefore that you love us not, and do not wish that we 
 should ever be loved. Yet we deem ourselves to the 
 full as wise and virtuous as those whom you ran after 
 
 ^ I suspect tliat the young and pretty heroine of this story, married to a 
 man much older than herself, is a portrait of Louise de Savoie in Jier 
 youth. "The lady hath ever been of my acquaintance," says Parlamente, 
 who tells the tale.
 
 i6o The Fo7''twtate Lovers. 
 
 in your youth, but it is ever the boast of old men that 
 they were more prudent than those who come after 
 them." "Yet, Nomerfide," said Geburon, "when the 
 deceit of one of your lovers hath made you to under- 
 stand the wickedness of men ; in that hour will you 
 believe that I have spoken the truth ? " Oisille said to 
 Geburon : " It seems to me that the gentleman whom 
 you praise so much for his courage ought rather to be 
 praised for the madness of his love, which is so strong 
 a power that it maketh the most pitiful cowards in the 
 world undertake things on which the bravest would 
 think twice." "It seems to me," said Hircan, "that 
 since you do not esteem the courage of him praise- 
 worthy, you doubtless know some other deed of the 
 same kind more worthy of praise." " It is true," said 
 Oisille, " that he is praiseworthy, but I know of one 
 more admirably brave." " I beseech you then," said 
 Geburon, " to take my place and tell us of him." 
 Oisille began: "What will you call one, who, for no 
 necessity laid upon him but from true and inborn 
 courage, did the deed I am about to tell you .-* " 
 
 NOVEL XVII. 
 King Francis shows his coiifagc tJuit it is well approved. 
 
 There came to Dijon, in the duchy of Burgundy, a 
 German count named William,^ of the House of Saxe, 
 
 1 This story takes place in the July of 1 52 1, when Count William of 
 Furstenburg was at the Court of Dijon. Brantome has dedicated a dis- 
 course to this good and valiant captain, who would have been (as he 
 remarks) esteemed still better and still braver had he not been so light of 
 faith, so fond of money, and so fond of plunder. " He served King 
 Francis six or seven years, and always with excellent soldiers, never less 
 than six or seven thousand men ; but after so long a service (or rather 
 pillage and plunder, to tell the truth) he fell into suspicion of desiring to
 
 Day the Second. i6i 
 
 which is so near akin to the House of Savoy that of old 
 they were one. This count, being esteemed the bravest 
 and most handsome gentleman in Germany, having 
 offered his service to the King of France, was so well 
 received of him that not only did he accept him as a 
 follower, but kept him close at hand as a servant of the 
 Body. Now my Lord de la Tremoille, governor of 
 Burgundy,^ the same being an ancient knight and loyal 
 
 attempt the person of the King — as it is written in the Hundred Novels 
 of the Queen of Navane." ... In later days Count William repented, 
 and Margaret appears to have forgiven him. She writes to her brother 
 in 1536: "Count William entreats me to tell you that there is indeed 
 a difference between the shameful purgatory of Italy and the glorious 
 paradise of your camp, and has told me such things of his past misdeeds 
 as I would rather he than I related to you." 
 
 ^ This was the Prince of Talmont, Louis II. de la Tremouille, known 
 to his generation as the chevalier sans reproche. He was the son of 
 Marguerite d'Amboise and Louis I. de la Tremouille, and came of some of 
 the best blood in France. He was born in 1460, and in 148S, at the 
 momentous battle of St Aubin, he conquered in the king's name the rebel 
 troops of Orleans and Brittany, and the nobles in revolt. The story goes 
 that, on the evening of the battle, De la Tremouille invited to a great 
 supper his illustrious captives : Orleans, Orange, &c., and all their 
 captains. Towards the end of the feast two monks appeared, and pallor 
 overspread the faces of the banqueting princes. "Calm yourselves," cried 
 De la Tremouille, "the king disposes oi yon, my lords. But you, you 
 lesser captains, who have broken your oath and your allegiance, set now 
 your consciences in order." Short shrift had these unhappy soldiers ; and 
 before the summer dawn arose the last of them was dead. . . . This story 
 does not seem exactly in harmony with the character of a chevalier sans 
 reproche, and one is pleased to find it has no better origin than the Latin 
 History of Louis XII., in Godefroi. It was Louis de la Tremouille 
 who, in the invasion of Italy under Charles VIII., associated himself 
 with Ligny and Piennes in the disastrous policy of forming a protectorate 
 in central Italy, headed by Pisa and Siena. This was a bold and spirite.l 
 scheme, but it all fell into tragic ruin, from causes too difficult to be 
 expounded here; yet, in 1495, the scheme seemed possible enough, an), 
 in his pursuit of it, De la Tremouille found himself in the same party with 
 the very Duk? of Orleans whoui he had taken prisoner seven years ago. 
 
 L
 
 1 62 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 servant to the King, was always jealous and fearful of 
 his master, and had spies on all hands, that he might 
 know the counsels of the enemies of the King, and so 
 well did he conduct matters that few things were hid 
 from him. And he was advertised by one of his friends 
 that Count William had received a sum of m.oney, with 
 assurance of more, to the intent that he might in any 
 way cause the King to be murdered. Whereupon my 
 lord de la Tremoille did forthwith advise the King of 
 it, and did not conceal it from his mother, Louise de 
 Savoye, who forgetting that she and this German were 
 akin, implored the King straightway to dismiss him. 
 But the King would have her speak no more of it, saying 
 it was impossible for so good and honourable a gentle- 
 man to have undertaken so evil an enterprise. At the 
 end of some time there came a second tidings concerning 
 him to the same intent as the first, at which the governor, 
 burning with love for his master, demanded that he 
 should be sent from his service and banished the realm, 
 or that some manner of order should be taken with 
 him. But the King straightly charged him that he 
 should make no sign, being well persuaded that by 
 some other means he should come to a knowledge of 
 the truth. 
 
 And one day, on which he was going a hunting, he 
 took out the best sword that he had, and bade Count 
 William follow hard after him ; and after chasing the 
 stag for some time, the King, seeing that all his people 
 were far off, and that the Count alone was with him, 
 
 Three years more, and Orleans ascended the throne of France as Louis 
 XII. It was a trying instant for those who had held him in captivity ; 
 but: "The king forgets the injuries of Orleans!" cried Louis XII., 
 and in 1501 he made De la Tremouille governor of Burgundy. He 
 fell fighting at Pavia.
 
 Day the Second. 163 
 
 turned aside from all the tracks. And when he saw 
 himself alone with the Count in the very depths of the 
 forest, drawing his sword he said to him : " Does this 
 sword seem to you both good to look upon and 
 serviceable withal ? " The Count, handling the point, 
 said he had seen none to overmatch it. " You are in 
 the right," said the King, " and methinks if a man was 
 resolved to kill me, and knew the strength of my arm 
 and the stoutness of my heart, and the goodness of this 
 sword here, he would think twice before having at me ; 
 nevertheless, I should hold him for a pitiful scoundrel 
 if we were all alone, without witnesses, and he durst 
 not carry out what he durst conceive," To which 
 Count William, with an astounded countenance, re- 
 plied : " Sire, the wickedness of such an undertaking 
 would be very great, but the folly of putting it into 
 execution would be no less." The King, with a laugh, 
 put back the sword into the sheath, and hearing the 
 chase hard by, pricked after it as fast as he was able. 
 When he was come up he spoke to no one on the 
 matter, being assured that Count William, though a 
 brave enough gentleman, was not competent for such an 
 enterprise. But the Count, believing that he was found 
 out or at the least suspected, came early on the next 
 morning to Robertet, the King's treasurer,^ saying that 
 
 ^ This Robertet, treasurer in 1521, was the old secretary of Charles 
 VIII. in Italy. He died in 1522, Few ministers have had more 
 power than Florimond Robertet — a man cautious, experienced, and 
 trusted. In Italy he was of the prudent party : the party of Commines, of 
 Bisconnet and Gie, opposed to the youthful daring of Ligny and De la 
 Tremouille. Readers of Commines' memoirs and of the diplomatic nego- 
 tiations of the time are familiar with the name of Robertet. He amassed 
 a decent wealth in the king's service, bought several estates, and at his 
 death left a son, Jacques, who succeeded to his power, his position, and 
 his prudence.
 
 164 The Fortunate Lovei^s. 
 
 he had considered the privileges and pay the King was 
 willing to give him to stay in his service, and they did 
 not suffice him for the half of a year. And if it was not 
 the King's pleasure to give him double, he should be 
 constrained to depart. And he prayed the said 
 Robertet to ascertain as soon as might be the will of 
 the King, who said that he could do him no better 
 service than go to the King forthwith. And he did 
 this willingly, since he had seen the advices of the 
 governor. So when the King was awake he failed not 
 to tell him what the Count had said, my lord de la 
 Tremoille and Admiral de Bonnivet ^ being present. 
 But they knew not that which the King had done 
 the day before. So with a laugh the King said : " You 
 were desirous of dismissing Count William, and behold 
 he dismisses himself ! Wherefore tell him that, since he 
 is not content with the estate to which he agreed when 
 he entered my service, than which estate many a man 
 of a noble house desires nothing better, it is reasonable 
 that he seek his fortune somewhere else. And as for 
 me I will put no let nor hindrance in his way, but shall 
 be glad if he find a place according to his deserts." 
 Robertet was as quick to carry back this reply to the 
 Count as he had been to carry the Count's complaint 
 to the King. And the Count said that, with his good 
 
 ^ The Admiral de Bonnivet was the most daring and the most brilliant 
 of the companions of Francis. Margaret speaks of him as young, valiant, 
 handsome, rich, wellnigh irresistible, in the third novel of the " Hep- 
 tameron," which relates his audacious and futile attempt upon her honour, 
 I have sometimes thought that Bonnivet might be the Amadour (amador — 
 lover) of the tenth novel. There is no doubt that he was in love with 
 Margaret, and she expressly admits that it needed more than human 
 strength and virtue to enable her to resist him. Bonnivet was still in the 
 flower of his youth when he fell in the desperate battle of Pavia.
 
 Day the Second. 165 
 
 pleasure, he was determined immediately to set forth. 
 And as one whom fear makes to begone, it was not 
 more than twenty-four hours from thence that he took 
 leave of the King, as he was sitting at table, feigning 
 to regret greatly that his poverty forced him away. 
 Likewise he took leave of the mother of the King, who 
 gave him leave as joyful as her welcome, when he 
 came to her as a kinsman and a friend; and so returned 
 he to his own land. But the King, perceiving his 
 mother and his followers astonished at this sudden 
 parting, told them of the fright he had given him, saying 
 that though he were innocent of what was laid against 
 him, yet his fear was too great for him to stay with a 
 master whose complexion he knew no longer. 
 
 " As for me, ladies, I see not what could have moved 
 the heart of the King to make hazard of his life with a 
 man of such repute at arms, except that, leaving the 
 company and the places where Kings find none to give 
 them battle, he wished to meet fairly and equally him 
 whom he suspected for an enemy, in order to make trial 
 of the stoutness of his own heart and the courage of it." 
 '' Without doubt," said Parlamente, " he was in the right, 
 for the praises of all men cannot so well satisfy a good 
 heart as the knowledge and experience that it hath 
 indeed virtue implanted in it by God." " It is a long 
 while ago," said Geburon, " since the men of old feigned 
 that if any one would attain the Temple of Renown, he 
 must first pass through the Temple of Virtue. And I, 
 who know the two persons, of whom you have made us 
 this relation, am well persuaded that the King is one of 
 the bravest men in his realm." " By my faith," said 
 Hircan, " when Count William came to France I should 
 have had more fear of his sword than that of the four
 
 1 66 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 shrewdest Italian gentlemen who were at Court." "We 
 know well," said Ennasuitte, " so great is his renown, 
 that no praises of ours can equal his merit, and that the 
 day would be too soon gone if each should speak his 
 mind. Wherefore I pray you, mistress, to give your 
 vote to one who Avill tell us some good of men, if there 
 be any good to be told. It is a short time since a story 
 was told me to the praise of a gentleman, his love, 
 firmness, and long-suffering, that I fear not to lose the 
 recollection of it. 
 
 ****** 
 "If you know a history to that intent," said Hircan, 
 " I give you my place for you to tell it." " I both know 
 one," said Ennasuitte, " and most willingly will tell it." 
 
 NOVEL XIX. 
 A j)itifHl case of two lovers who turn at last monk and mm. 
 
 In the time of that Marquis of Mantua, who had for 
 wife the sister of the Duke of Ferrara,^ there lived in 
 the house of the marchioness a maiden called Pauline. 
 And she was loved in such wise by a gentleman in the 
 service of the marquis that all men were amazed at the 
 greatness of his love, inasmuch as though of poor estate 
 he was handsome, and should, through the love his 
 
 ^ Giovan Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, married, in 1490, 
 Isabella d'Este, daughter of Ercole of Ferrara. The Marquis of Mantua, 
 ike his brother-in-law of Ferrara, served the French with devoted fervour, 
 until the unjust seizure of Peschiera by his allies estranged him, and sent 
 him in revolt and indignation to offer his service to the Emperor. M. le 
 Roux de Lincy believes that the Italian colour of this story is merely a 
 disguise, bu in view of the continual intercourse between France and the
 
 Day the Second. 167 
 
 master bore him, have espoused some lady of wealth. 
 But he, being assured that the greatest treasure in the 
 world was Pauline, trusted to gain her for his own in 
 marriage. The marchioness, w'ishing that by her coun- 
 tenance Pauline might make a more profitable match, 
 looked with disfavour on the scheme, often charging 
 them not to speak to one another, and warning them 
 that if they were wed they would be in all Italy the 
 poorest couple and the most wretched. But to these 
 counsels the young gentleman paid no heed, and 
 Pauline, though she strove to conceal the love she 
 bore him, yet none the less had him in her thoughts. 
 And this fellowship of theirs lasted for a long while, 
 their only hope being that time would bring them 
 better fortune. But it chanced that war broke out, in 
 which the young gentleman was taken prisoner, to- 
 gether with a Frenchman, whose love for a lady in his 
 own land was as great as the other's love for one in 
 Italy. And these, finding themselves partakers of the 
 same fate, began to tell their secrets one to the other, 
 the Frenchman confessing that his own heart was a 
 fast prisoner, though he told him not the name of its 
 prison-house. But since they were both in the follow- 
 ing of the Marquis of Mantua, the Frenchman was well 
 assured of the love his comrade bore to Pauline, and out 
 of the friendship he had for him advised him to banish 
 her from his thoughts. But this, the young Italian 
 swore, lay not within his power, saying that if in recom- 
 pense of his good service and captivity his lord would 
 not give him the maid to wife, he would presently turn 
 
 North Italian States in the sixteenth century, I can see no reason for 
 adopting this suggestion. It is different to the case of the tenth novel, 
 where Margaret frankly admits having changed the locality.
 
 1 68 TJic Forttinate Lovers. 
 
 monk, and do suit and service to no master save God. 
 This his comrade could not believe, discerning in him 
 no devotion or sign of devotion, except it were that 
 which he bore to Pauline. At the end of nine months 
 the French gentleman was enlarged from his captivity, 
 and by his efforts procured likewise the freedom of his 
 friend, using also his good offices with the marquis 
 and marchioness in the matter of the marriage of 
 Pauline. But from this the two lovers gained nothing 
 save warnings of the poverty in which they would both 
 have to live ; their parents moreover on both sides 
 Avere against the match, and forbade him to speak to 
 her any more, to the end that his great love might be 
 overcome by absence and want of opportunity. 
 
 And so this man, seeing that he was obliged to obey, 
 prayed of the marchioness to let him take leave of 
 Pauline, and promised that after he had done so he 
 would never speak to her again. This was granted him, 
 and at the appointed time, being come into her presence, 
 he spoke as follows : " Since, Pauline, it seems that 
 heaven and earth are against us, not only in prohibiting 
 us to wed, but what is worse, in disallowing us sight 
 and speech of one another — an order which our lord 
 and lady have laid so strictly upon us that they may 
 truly boast of having broken two hearts with a single 
 word, hereby showing mighty well that they neither 
 have nor have had bowels of love nor compassion — I 
 am well advised that their aim in this is to marry each 
 of us honourably and to advantage, for they know not 
 that contentment is the only true riches; yet with so 
 much misfortune and unhappiness have they affected 
 mc, that I can no more heartily do them any service. 
 I know also that if I had never spoken of marriage
 
 Day the Second. 169 
 
 they would not have been so careful as to forbid us to 
 speak together, but I promise you I would rather die 
 than follow a less honourable love than that Avith which 
 I have loved you, from whom I have won that which I 
 would defend from all. Since then, if I continued to 
 see you, I could not restrain myself from speech ; and 
 if I saw you not, my heart, unable to remain empty, 
 would be filled with some awful despair ; I have 
 determined, and this for some time, to enter the 
 religious life, for though I know that salvation may be 
 gained by all sorts and conditions of men, yet I would 
 have more leisure in which I may contemplate the 
 Divine Goodness and implore it to have pity upon the 
 sins of my youth, and so to change my heart that it 
 may love spiritual things no less than it has hitherto 
 loved temporal things. And if by grace I obtain 
 grace, my task shall be to pray without ceasing to God 
 for you. And by that strong and loyal love which has 
 been between us, I implore you to remember me in 
 your prayers to our Lord, entreating Him to give me a 
 resolution not to see you, as great as the delight I took 
 in seeing you. Moreover, since throughout my whole 
 life I have hoped to gain you in marriage, and have 
 been satisfied with hope, now, since that is lost to 
 me, and I shall never have from you the love that 
 a wife gives to her husband, this one thing I ask, 
 that in bidding me farewell you will treat me as 
 a brother and give me a kiss." Poor Pauline, 
 whose favours had always been {&\y and far between, 
 perceiving the bitterness of his grief, and his honour 
 in making so reasonable a request in all his great 
 despair, without saying another word threw her arms 
 around his neck and wept after such a grievous fashion
 
 I yo The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 that words, voice, and strength failed her, and she fell 
 between his arms in a swoon. Whereupon her lover, 
 overcome by pity, love, and grief, must needs do the 
 like, and falling one one way, the other another, they 
 lay for dead till one of Pauline's companions saw them 
 and came to the rescue. 
 
 Then Pauline, who had wished to conceal her love, 
 was ashamed, because she had made manifest how 
 strong it was, but yet her pity for the poor gentleman 
 served as a good excuse. For he, not able to endure 
 the saying of that everlasting farewell, went forth from 
 her presence, and going unto his own house flung 
 himself upon the bed, and passed the night in such 
 pitiful complaining that his servants thought that he 
 had lost his parents, and his friends, and whatsoever he 
 had on earth. In the morning he commended himself 
 to our Lord, and after he had divided amongst his 
 servants what little worldly gear he possessed, and 
 taken with him a small sum of money, he charged his 
 people not to follow him, and departed by himself to 
 the religious house of the Observance, to demand the 
 cowl, being well determined never to go from that 
 house for the rest of his life. The warden, who had 
 formerly known him, thought at first that he was either 
 being laughed at or that he was in a dream, for in all 
 that land there was none who did less resemble a Grey 
 Friar, since in him was found every honour and every 
 virtue which one could desire in a perfect gentleman. 
 Yet the warden, on hearing of his words, and beholding 
 the streams of tears that flowed (for what cause he knew 
 not) down his face, took him in and entreated him 
 kindly. And soon after, marking his perseverance, he 
 gave him the monastic dress, which having been received
 
 Day the Second. 1 7 1 
 
 by this gentleman with great devotion, the thing was 
 brought to the marquis and marchioness, who, greatly 
 astonished, could scarcely believe it possible. Pauline, 
 to hide her love, concealed as well as might be the 
 regret she felt for him, and in such wise that all men 
 said that she had soon forgotten her loyal lover and his 
 devotion for her. And so were passed five or six months, 
 and she gave no sign of the grief that was in her soul. 
 But it fell out that one day she was shown by some 
 monks a song which her lover had made a short while 
 after he had taken the cowl. As to the air 'tis an 
 Italian one, and ordinary enough, but I have tried to 
 English the words as nearly as I can, and this is the 
 manner of it ; but first the burthen : 
 
 What will she say, when clad in sober guise 
 
 Monasticall 
 I pass before the eyes 
 
 That were my all ? 
 
 Alas, dear maid, when thou art all alone 
 
 And tear on tear 
 Shall rise for me, and many a bitter moan 
 
 For our mishap ; wise thoughts may lead thee where 
 The cloister is a walk for solitude. 
 
 And high built walls shut out all tumult rude. 
 What will she say, &c. 
 
 What will they say, who our love-dream have broken 
 
 And our estate : 
 By whose decree our vows were left unspoken ? 
 
 When by their hate 
 They see a love more pure, a flame more holy 
 They shall repent, and kneeling lowly, 
 
 Bewail with sobs and tears 
 
 Our saddened years. 
 
 What will she say, &c.
 
 172 The FortjLiiate Lovers. 
 
 But if they come and with a vain endeavour 
 
 Do ask us to arise, 
 And from this holy watch would fain dissever 
 
 Our hearts and eyes, 
 Then shall we say that till our days are ending, 
 And to its Lord each soul is wending ; 
 
 These walls that circle round 
 
 Shall be our bound. 
 
 What will she say, &c. 
 
 And if they come, and say to us " Go marry 
 
 And be you blythe and gay, 
 Your lives are young, but Time will not long tarry 
 
 And hasteneth fast away," 
 Then shall we say that all our love and duty 
 Are His with whom is perfect beauty. 
 
 Our marriage is above, 
 
 For there is Love. 
 
 What will she say, &c. 
 
 O mighty love, O passion and desire 
 
 That bound the cord, 
 Enflame within my heart a ceaseless fire 
 
 To pray the Lord. 
 All through the watches, patient without sorrow, 
 Till Prime doth come of that to-morrow 
 
 Which hath no twilight grey. 
 
 But morn alway. 
 
 What will she say, (S:c. 
 
 Quit wealth, and all contentments of this Hfe, 
 
 They're but a chain. 
 Stronger than steel to forge us fast to strife, 
 
 Our souls to bane. 
 Quit then the flesh and all its giddy pleasure 
 Mad without measure. 
 
 What will she say, &c. 
 
 Come then and don with me that holiness 
 The Lord doth give ;
 
 Day the Second. 173 
 
 For though the robe 's ash-grey, yet none the less 
 
 We thrive and live ; 
 And like the phcenix shall one day aspire 
 From out these ashes of our fire. 
 What will she say, &c. 
 
 And seeing our love showed pure, and had no stain 
 
 To men before ; 
 Much greater praise we doubtless shall attain 
 
 Since we adore 
 In cloistered walls the Lord of Life and Glory, 
 Till when the end comes to our story 
 
 Love that could never die 
 
 Shall lift our souls on high. 
 What will she say, &c. 
 
 And when, being by herself in a side-chapel, she had 
 carefully read through these verses, so plentifully did 
 she weep that all the paper was wetted with her tears. 
 And had it not been for the fear she was in of too 
 evidently manifesting her affection, she would straight- 
 way have turned hermit, and looked her last on the face 
 of mankind. But the prudence to which her mind was 
 attempered made her for some time conceal her intent, 
 and though she was steadfastly purposed to leave the 
 world behind her, she feigned the very opposite of this, 
 and so joyous was she become in company that she 
 would hardly have been known for her former self. 
 For five or six months she kept this secret covered in 
 her heart. But having one day gone with her mistress 
 to the Church of the Observance to High Mass, she 
 saw, as the celebrant, deacon, and sub-deacon came 
 from the sacristy to the high altar, her poor lover, who 
 had not yet completed the year of his noviciate, pre- 
 ceding them as server, carrying in his hands the two 
 flagons covered with silk cloth, and with eyes bent on
 
 1 74 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 to the ground. When Pauline saw him in this sad 
 weed, that did but increase his grace and beauty, she 
 was in such trouble and afifray that, simulating a rheum 
 in the throat, she coughed so as to hide the blushes of 
 her face. And her lover, who knew that sound better 
 than his monastery chimes, turned not his head, but as 
 he passed in front of her could net restrain his eyes 
 from going the road they had so often gone before. 
 But at that most piteous regard of his he was seized in 
 such wise by the fire he thought to have extinguished, 
 that striving to conceal it more than he was able, he 
 fell full length before his mistress. Yet for the fear 
 he had of the cause being known, he professed that in 
 the place where he fell the floor was broken and uneven. 
 And Pauline, perceiving that though his dress was 
 changed his heart was the same as it had been, and 
 likewise that such a time had gone by since he had 
 become a monk that all men would deem she had for- 
 gotten him, set herself to bring that to pass which she 
 had desired — namely, to make their two lives as like 
 one another in dress, estate, and manner of living as 
 they had been aforetime when they abode in the same 
 house under the same master and mistress. And since 
 she had for more than four months before taken such 
 order as was necessary previous to becoming a nun, she 
 one morninsT entreated leave of the marchioness to hear 
 mass at St Claire's, which the marchioness, not knowing 
 what was in her mind, freely granted. But as she 
 passed the Grey Friars she asked the warden to let her 
 see her lover, whom she called her kinsman, and when 
 they had met in a side-chapel by themselves, Pauline 
 thus spoke to him : " If my honour had allowed me to 
 put on this dress as soon as you I would presently have
 
 Day the Second. i 75 
 
 done it, but now, since I have, by not doing so, silenced 
 the slanders of those who are always more ready to 
 think evil than good, I am determined to take upon 
 myself this robe, estate, and life of yours without in- 
 quiring of what kind they are. For if you are happy, 
 I shall partake in your happiness, and if you are un- 
 happy, in that too I am fain to have my share, for by 
 whatsoever road you fare to Paradise I too would follow. 
 For I am assured that He, who alone is worthy to be 
 called the true and perfect Love, has drawn us to His 
 service by a reasonable and honourable friendship which 
 He, by the operation of His Holy Spirit, will turn wholly 
 to Himself. And I beseech you, forgetting this vile and 
 perishable body, to put on that of the true Spouse who 
 is Jesus Christ." Her monkish lover was filled with such 
 delight to hear her holy wishes that, weeping with joy, 
 he strengthened her therein to the utmost of his power, 
 telling her that since the pleasure of hearing her speak 
 was the only one let to him, he deemed himself happy 
 to live in a place where he might always see her ; and 
 that they, trusting in the goodness of God, in whose 
 hands no one is suftered to perish, should pass the rest 
 of their lives in a state of holy love. And with these 
 words, weeping with joy, he made as if to kiss her 
 hands, but she lowered her face to her hands, and in 
 true love they gave to one another the kiss of peace. So 
 in this joyful wise Pauline departed, and was received 
 into the nunnery of St Claire, where she took the veil. 
 
 But when my lady the marchioness heard all this 
 matter, she was much amazed, and fared on the morrow 
 to the convent, and endeavoured to turn Pauline from 
 her purpose, who replied that she must rest content 
 with having deprived her of her husband in the flesh,
 
 1 76 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 that man whom of all men she best loved, and not 
 endeavour to sunder her from that spouse who is im- 
 mortal and invisible, for it lay not within her power, nor 
 that of any creature upon earth. Whereupon the 
 marchioness, perceiving her intention was sincere, kissed 
 her, and with a great grief left her. And for the rest of 
 their days Pauline and her lover lived in such holiness 
 and devotion, each one faithfully obeying the rules of 
 the Order, that we cannot doubt that He whose law is 
 Love said to them at the end of their lives, as to the 
 Magdalen, " Your sins be forgiven you, for you have 
 loved much." 
 
 " You cannot deny, ladies, that the love of this man 
 was greater than that of his mistress, nevertheless so well 
 was he recompensed that I would all true lovers were in 
 case like his. ' 
 
 "Then," quoth Hircan, "there would be more foolish 
 men and maids than there are now." "Call you those 
 foolish," said Oisille, " who in their youth love with an 
 honourable love, and end by turning it all to God ? " 
 Hircan, with a laugh, replied : "If black choler and 
 despair are worthy of praise, then indeed Pauline and 
 her lover stand beyond compare." " Is it not'^true," said 
 Geburon, "that God draws us to Himself by ways' which 
 seem evil at the first, but the end whereof is good 1 " 
 " Still do I persist in the opinion," said Parlamente, 
 "that no "man loveth God who has not loved with a 
 perfect love one of His creatures." "What do you call 
 a perfect love ? " said Saffredent. " Do you mean those 
 chilly souls that adore their ladies from afar, without 
 discovering their thoughts ? " " I," said Parlamente, 
 " call those men perfect lovers who, when they love seek 
 for some perfection, be it beauty, goodness, or gracious
 
 Day the Second. 177 
 
 ways ; always striving towards virtuousness, and with 
 hearts of such high aim that death is sweeter by far to 
 them than the doing of a deed of shame. And this 
 because the soul, which was created for nothing but to 
 return to its sovereign good, while it is shut within the 
 body, is ever longing to return thither. But seeing that 
 the senses, through which we obtain our knowledge, 
 can show us nothing nearer perfection than visible 
 things (for through the sin of our first parent they are 
 dull and heavy), the soul pursues these, thinking to find 
 in a visible grace, and in the moral virtues, the ideal 
 beauty, grace, and virtue. 13ut having curiously gone 
 through all these external things, and finding out 
 amongst them that which it really loves, it passes on to 
 others, even after the manner of a child, who, being 
 young, loves dolls and other trifles, the prettiest that it 
 happens to see, thinking a heap of pebbles to be great 
 wealth. But as the child becomes a man he loves dolls 
 that are alive, and veritable riches with which to pur- 
 chase the goods of this world. So the soul, discovering 
 by hard experience that there is no kind of perfection 
 or happiness in things terrestrial, passes on from these 
 and seeks Him from whom proceeds all perfection and 
 happiness. All the same, did not God grant unto the 
 seeker the eye of faith, it were likely that from being 
 ignorant he should become an atheist ; for it is 
 faith alone that doth enable carnal and sensual man to 
 apprehend the idea of the highest good." "Do you 
 not perceive," said Longarine, " that the uncultivated 
 soil that brings forth everything luxuriously is valued 
 by men because, though what grows thereon is of no 
 profit, they hope that when it has been tilled it will 
 bear good fruit } But that man who hath no love for 
 
 M
 
 1 78 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 carnal things will never attain to the love of God by the 
 sowing of his word, since the soil of his heart is barren 
 and will bring forth no fruit of love." " And what is 
 the reason ? " said Safifredent. " Is it not because the 
 greater part of our teachers are not spiritual, but lovers 
 of strong drink and nasty serving-maids, not trying 
 what it is to love honourable ladies ? " " If I could speak 
 Latin," said Simontault, " I would read you that lesson 
 of St John's : ' How shall he who loveth not his 
 brother whom he hath seen, love God whom he hath 
 not seen ? ' For, from the love of visible things, one 
 is drawn to that of the invisible." " But," said Enna- 
 suitte, " qjiis est ilk so perfect as you say, et laudabivuis 
 eufuy " There have been lovers," said Dagoucin, " who 
 have loved with a love so strong and pure, that with 
 them death itself were better than the feeling of the 
 smallest desire against the honour of their ladies, and 
 they do not even wish them to be advised of their love." 
 " Then," said Saffredent, " they have the nature of a 
 chameleon, that feeds on air. For there was never man 
 born of woman that desired not to declare his love, 
 and to know if he is beloved; and be this love-fever 
 never so hot, if it be not returned, it will presently 
 pass off." 
 
 At these words Parlamente put on her mask,' and 
 with the rest walked home to evensong at church, 
 where, though it was fully service-time, they found not 
 so much as a single monk in the choir. And the reason 
 of this was that the monks had heard how the company 
 
 ^ Parlamente meet son touret-de-nez : a little mask hiding only the 
 brow and nose, worn by ladies of quality, partly for disguise, partly for 
 ornament, partly for protection from the sun (the fan shading the mouth). 
 In the MS. oi La Cochc all the ladies wear tourets-de-nez.
 
 Day the Second. 1 79 
 
 was wont to assemble in the meadow and there tell 
 tales, and since they loved pleasure better than their 
 prayers, they had all gone likewise to the meadow and 
 hidden themselves in a ditch behind a thick hedge. 
 And so good a listening had they given to the stories 
 that they had not heard the monastery bell, and came 
 in such haste that their breath well-nigh failed them as 
 they began evensong. And when they were asked the 
 reason why their chanting began late, and when it 
 began was out of tune, they confessed the truth. So, 
 seeing that they desired it, it was granted them that 
 henceforth they should assist at these offices seated at 
 their ease behind the hedge. Supper-time was spent 
 merrily in uttering the things they had left unsaid in 
 the meadow, and this lasted all through the evening, 
 until Oisille entreated them to retire, that their wit 
 might be the keener on the morrow after a good 
 sleep, of which she said that an hour before midnight 
 was better than three after. So parted the com- 
 pany, each one to his own room, and so came to an end 
 the second day.
 
 DAY THE THIRD. 
 
 ON THE THIRD DAY RELATION IS MADE OF THE LADIES THAT 
 HAVE HAD NO AIM BUT HONOUR, AND OF THE ABOMINABLE 
 HYPOCRISY OF THE MONKS. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 On the morrow they all arose early and came into the 
 hall, but yet found Oisille there before them, she having 
 been for the last half-hour in meditation on the 
 Scripture she was to read. And if on the first and 
 second days she gave them good matter of contentment, 
 she did no less on the third. And had not one of the 
 monks sought them out, that they might hear High 
 Mass, they would not have heard it ; for in such wise 
 did they meditate that they made no account of the 
 bell. And when they had with due devotion heard 
 Mass, they dined very soberly, so as not by an excess 
 of meats to prevent each one's memory quitting itself 
 as well as might be. After this they went to their 
 rooms to look at their note-books till the hour was 
 come for going into the meadow, which was no long 
 time. And those who had resolved on telling some 
 merry case had already such pleasant faces that they 
 gave promise of abundant laughter. When they were 
 seated, they asked Saffredent to whom he would give 
 his vote to begin the third day. " It seems to me," said 
 he, "that since the fault I committed yesterday was so
 
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 Day the Third. 1 8 1 
 
 great, and you say it is a grievous one, and since I 
 know no tale fit to atone for it, I must give my vote to 
 Parlamente, who with her good sense knows so well 
 how to praise the ladies that she will cover my true 
 story with the cloak of forgetfulness." " I do not under- 
 take," answered Parlamente, "to make atonement for 
 your sins, but only not to follow in your steps. Where- 
 fore, with the truth to which we are sworn and agreed, 
 it is my purpose to show you that there are women who 
 in their love passages always keep honour before their 
 eyes. And since she, of whom I am about to tell you, 
 came of a good house, I will only change the names : 
 and pray you, ladies, believe that love has no power to 
 make alteration in a chaste and honourable heart, the 
 which you shall see by the following relation." 
 
 NOVEL XXI. 
 
 TJie steadfast and 1w7toiirablc love of Rohmdine., ivJio after niaity 
 sorroivs at last finds liappiness. 
 
 There was a Queen of France who in her household 
 maintained many maidens of good and illustrious 
 families. Amongst others there was one named Ro- 
 landine,^ who was the Queen's near kinswoman, but for 
 
 ^ There can be no doubt that M. Franck, in a happy hour, discovered 
 Anne de Rohan under the disguise of Rolandine. " I will change the 
 names," said Parlamente, and of Rohan, she made Rolandine. Anne de 
 Rohan was cousin and maid of honour to Queen Anne of Brittany the 
 wife first of Charles VIII. and then of Louis XII. of France. The 
 description of the Queen as maintaining many illustrious maidens is quite 
 exact. She was the first Queen who filled the Court with maids of honour 
 and ladies in waiting. A chaste, pious, and honourable woman, she was 
 none the less irascible, obstinate, and difficult in temper — a typical Bre- 
 lonne. She was a good friend, but also a hard and bitter enemy. It is
 
 1 82 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 some discontent she had conceived with her father, she 
 gave her not over-pleasant entertainment. This girl, 
 not being of the prettiest or the ugliest, was yet so dis- 
 creet and virtuous that several great personages had 
 asked her in marriage, but met with a cold answer, for 
 her father loved money so well that he made nothing of 
 the advancement of his daughter, and the Queen her 
 mistress, as I have said, held her in such small favour 
 that they who were fain to gain her good grace asked 
 not Rolandine of her. So by her father's neglect and 
 the Queen's misliking, the poor girl stayed a long while 
 without being married. And being sad at heart on this 
 account, not so much that she desired to be married as 
 for shame that she was not, she gave herself up wholly 
 to God, leaving behind her all the pomps and vanities 
 of the Court, and her sole delight was in prayer and in 
 the doing of needlework. So in this quiet manner of 
 living her young years were passed, and they were as 
 well and virtuously spent as one could desire. Now 
 there was at Court a young gentleman i who carried on 
 
 quite true that among her enemies she reckoned Jean II., Vicomte de 
 Rohan, the father of Rolandine, who, in 1470, deserted the Duke of Brit- 
 tany, the Queen's father, for the camp of Louis XI. He fought under 
 Louis de la Tremouille at St Aubin, where his position, as a Breton ia 
 the hosts of France, was scarcely patriotic. Moreover, it was rumoured 
 that Louis XI. had offered him the crown of Brittany. Queen Anne, less 
 magnanimous than her husband, never forgot the injuries done to the 
 Duchess of Brittany. 
 
 ^ M. le Roux de Lincy suggests very plausibly, as it appears to me, 
 that this gentleman, with the bar sinister on an exceeding noble coat, 
 was the Bastard of Angouleme, John, the natural son of John, Count of 
 Angouleme. Lacroix objects that John of Angouleme would be too old ; 
 but this is according to Le Roux's supposition that the action of this story 
 should be placed after 1500. More likely it happened in 1499, when (not 
 in 1508) Louise of Savoy first brought her children to the Court of Louis 
 XII. We read a few pages further on, "there came to Court with the
 
 Day the Third. 185 
 
 an exceeding noble coat the bar sinister, though as 
 pleasant a comrade and as honest a man as any, but 
 mighty poor, and for comeliness he had so little that 
 none but she would have chosen him for a lover. For 
 a long while he had lived without a mate, but since one 
 unfortunate seeks out another, he addressed himself to 
 Rolandine, seeing that their fortunes, complexions, and 
 estates were all alike. And while they made complaint 
 to one another of their mischances, they became great 
 friends ; and finding themselves to be partakers in the 
 same lot, they sought one another out everywhere, 
 and in this manner was engendered a great and 
 lasting acquaintanceship between them. But those 
 who had beheld Rolandine afore so retired that she 
 spoke to no one, now seeing her incessantly with 
 this gentleman, were mightily scandalised thereat, 
 and told her gouvernante that she should not endure 
 their long talks together. She therefore made re- 
 monstrance to Rolandine, telling her that all men took 
 in bad part that she spoke so much to one who 
 was not rich enough for a husband, nor handsome 
 enough for a sweetheart. Rolandine, who had always 
 suffered reproof for her austerity and not her worldli- 
 ness, said to her gouvernante : " Alas, mother, you see 
 that I cannot have a husband of like estate with myself, 
 and as for those who are young and comely, I have 
 always fled them, lest perchance I fall into the same 
 pit into which others have fallen. And since I find, as 
 you know, this gentleman to be a prudent man and a 
 
 young prince her son, a lady nearly related to the lover of Rolandine." 
 John of Angouleme was tlie brother-in-law of Louisa, the uncle of Francis 
 and Margaret, according to the ties of blood. Legitimated as an infant 
 in 1458, he was in 1499 about forty years old, and Rolandine, we must 
 remember, was not in her fust youth.
 
 1 84 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 virtuous, and that his discourse is only on good and 
 honourable things, what wrong have I done in consol- 
 ing myself in my weariness for those who have spoken 
 to you ? " The poor old woman, who loved her mistress 
 more than herself, said to her: "Mistress, I am well 
 persuaded that you speak the truth, and that the treat- 
 ment you have had of your father and the Queen is not 
 according to your deserts. Yet, since men handle your 
 honour in this fashion, were he your own brother, 
 you would do well to separate yourself from him." 
 Rolandine, weeping, replied to her : " Mother, I will do 
 according to your counsel, but it is a strange thing not 
 to have any matter of consolation in the world." The 
 gentleman, as was his custom, came to talk with her, but 
 she declared to him all that her gouvernante had said, 
 and with tears implored him that he would be content 
 not to hold parley with her until this rumour was over- 
 past ; and this at her request he did. 
 
 But during this estrangement, having both lost their 
 consolaton, they began to feel a torment that was new 
 to both of them. She ceased not to pray to God, to go 
 on pilgrimages, and to observe duly the fasts and days 
 of abstinence ; for love, till now unknown to her, made 
 her so unquiet that she had not rest for a single hour. 
 The gentleman was in no less pitiful case ; but he, who 
 had already determined in his heart to love her and 
 endeavour to get her for his wife, thinking both of love 
 and the honour he would have if he succeeded,^ con- 
 
 ^ It would be a great match for the bastard of Angouleme to marry a 
 daughter of the Vicomte de Rohan ; his father, the son of I-ouis of 
 Orleans and Valentine Visconti, had been fitly mated with an aunt of 
 Rolandine's. To marry so great a lady would cover the stain of illegiti- 
 macy. Moreover, Rolandine would bring not merely honour to her 
 husband ; her father had been well rewarded by Louis XI. for his defec- 
 tion from the ranks of Brittany, lie was a rich man and a raiser.
 
 Day the Third. 185 
 
 ceived that he must seek means of speaking with her, 
 and, above all, of winning over the gouvernante. This 
 he did, making remonstrance to her of the misery of 
 her poor mistress, from whom they were fain to take 
 away all manner of consolation. At this the old woman 
 wept, and thanked him for the honourable friendship 
 he had for her mistress. And they took counsel together 
 how he might best speak with her, and the plan was for 
 Rolandine to often feign to be sick of the megrims, in 
 which noise is hurtful, and when her fellows went into 
 the Queen's chamber, they two could stay by them- 
 selves, and then he could talk with her. With this the 
 gentleman was quite content, and altogether ruled 
 himself by the advice of the gouvernante in such sort 
 that when he would he talked with his sweetheart. 
 But this lasted not for a long while ; for the Queen, 
 bearing no great love for her, asked what Rolandine 
 did in her room. And though one said it was by 
 reason of her sickness, another would have it she stayed 
 in her room because parley with the gentleman afore- 
 said made the megrims to pass over. The Queen, who 
 esteemed the venial sins of others mortal in her, sought 
 her out, and strictly charged her that she should not 
 speak with this gentleman, unless it were in the presence 
 or in the great hall. The girl made no sign, but an- 
 swered : " If 1 thought he was displeasing to you, I 
 would never have spoken with him." Natheless she 
 resolved within herself to search out some other means 
 of which the Queen should know nothing, and this she 
 accomplished. For on Wednesdays, Fridays, and 
 Saturdays she fasted and stayed in her room with her 
 gouvernante, and there had time, while her fellows 
 supped, for holding parley with him whom she began
 
 1 86 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 to love exceedingly. And the more they were con- 
 strained to cut short their speech, the more affection 
 was there in it ; for they took time by stealth as does a 
 robber something of great price. But the matter was 
 not kept so secretly that a servant did not see him go 
 into her room on a fast day, who told his tale in a 
 quarter where it was not concealed from the Queen. 
 And she was so wroth thereat, that no more durst the 
 gentleman enter into the maid's room ; but so as not 
 altogether to lose this blessing of speech, he often made 
 pretence of going on a journey, returning at eventide to 
 the castle church in the gear of a Grey Friar or a 
 Jacobin, and so well disguised that none recognised 
 him ; and thither went Rolandine and her gouver- 
 nante. And he, perceiving the great love she bore 
 him, feared not to say : " You see the risk in which, for 
 your sake, I put my life, and that the Queen has for- 
 bidden us to speak together. And also consider of 
 what sort is your father, who thinks not in any manner 
 of marrying you. He has already refused many a good 
 match, in such fashion that I know not any from, far 
 or near who can have you. I know well that I am 
 poor, and that you cannot marry a gentleman of my 
 estate ; but if love and goodwill were accounted as 
 great treasure, I should think myself the richest man 
 in the world. God has given you riches, and you are 
 in the likelihood of having still more, and if I were so 
 happy as to be chosen by you, I would be your faithful 
 husband, lover, and follower unto my life's end. But 
 if you chose one of equal estate, a thing difficult for 
 you, he would be to you as a master, and would regard 
 your goods more than yourself, and the beauty of others 
 more than your virtuousness ; and, while he enjoyed the
 
 Day the Third. 187 
 
 usufruct of your wealth, he would not treat you as you 
 deserve. The desire I have of this contentment, and 
 my fear lest another possess himself of it, cause me to 
 implore you that on the same day you make me happy 
 and yourself the best satisfied and best entreated wife 
 that ever was." Rolandine hearing the discourse that 
 she herself had determined to hold with him, replied 
 with a well-pleased face : " I am glad that you have 
 made this beginning, for I have for a long time been 
 resolved to speak with you to this intent, and have 
 thought upon the matter for the two years in which I have 
 known you, never ceasing to place before me all manner 
 of conclusions both for and against. But since I con- 
 fess that I wish to enter into this estate of matrimony, 
 it is now full time that I begin and choose someone with 
 whom I may live with a contented mind. I have not 
 found one, be he rich, comely, or of noble blood with 
 whom my heart and mind could be in such accord as 
 with you ; for I know that in marrying you I shall do 
 God no displeasure, but rather follow His commands. 
 As for my father he has done so little for my good and 
 so much to my hurt, that the law will have me marry 
 and by no means lose mine inheritance. As for the 
 Queen my mistress, I shall not make it a point of con- 
 science to do her a pleasure and God a displeasure ; 
 since she has done nothing but hinder me from having 
 any blessing I might have had in my youth. But to 
 the intent that }'ou may understand that my love is 
 built upon virtue and honour, you shall promise me 
 that, if 1 take you in marriage, you will not endeavour 
 to seek the consummation of it till either my father is 
 dead or I bring him to consent." This the gentleman 
 promised willingly, and they exchanged rings and
 
 1 88 The Fortimate Lovei'-s. 
 
 kissed one another in the church before God, whom 
 they had as witness to their promise ; and between 
 them there passed no other familiarity, save kissing. 
 
 This small contentment filled with joy the hearts of 
 these two perfect lovers, and they were for some time 
 without seeing one another, but yet in full security of love. 
 Now there was no place in which glory might be gained 
 to which the gentleman was not fain to go, since 
 he could not account himself for a poor man, God 
 having given to him so rich a wife ; and while he was 
 away she kept their perfect love so in her heart, that 
 all others were as nothing to her. And although there 
 were they who asked her in marriage, they had no 
 answer from her but that, since she had lived such a 
 long while unmarried, she had no wish ever to be 
 married. This answer came to the ears of so many 
 folk that the Queen heard thereof, and asked her 
 wherefore she gave it. And Rolandine said that it was 
 given from obedience to her, who had never desired her 
 to be married to any man who could have made hon- 
 ourable provision for her ; and that age and patience 
 had made her resolve to content herself with her present 
 estate. And to all who spoke to her on this manner 
 she gave the same reply. But when the wars were over 
 and the gentleman was returned to Court, she by no 
 means spoke to him before other folk, but would go 
 always to a certain church where, under pretext of 
 confession, she would parley with him ; for the Queen 
 had charged both him and her that they should not 
 speak to one another on pain of their lives, except it 
 were in some great assembly. But honourable love 
 knowing nothing of such charges, was more ready to 
 find means of speech than was the enemy to spy it
 
 Day the Third. 1 89 
 
 out ; and he, concealing himself under the habit of 
 
 every order of monks he could think of, they continued 
 
 in this pleasant fashion till that the King went to his 
 
 pleasure house near Tours. In that place there 
 
 was no church to which the ladies could go on 
 
 foot save only the one pertaining to the castle, and 
 
 that so badly designed for their purpose that there 
 
 was no hiding-place or confessional in it in which 
 
 the confessor could not be clearly recognised. Nathe- 
 
 less, if opportunity failed them on one side, love 
 
 found them other and easier, for there came to 
 
 Court a lady nearly related to the lover of Rolandine. 
 
 And she with the young prince her son were lodged in 
 
 the King's household, and the prince's room stood out 
 
 beyond the rest of the house, in such a manner that, 
 
 from his window, it was possible to see and talk with 
 
 Rolandine, for the windows were at the angle where the 
 
 two parts of the house joined one another. And in this 
 
 room of hers, that stood above the King's Hall, there 
 
 were lodged with her all the ladies who were her 
 
 fellows. And she, ofttimes seeing the prince at his 
 
 window, by her gouvernante advised her husband of it ; 
 
 whereupon, after well observing the place, he feigned to 
 
 take great delight in the reading of a book concerning 
 
 the Knights of the Round Table,^ which was in the 
 
 ^ Romances of chivalry had a great vogue throughout the reign of 
 Charles VIII. The young king had been left uneducated by his father, 
 who feared a little to imperil by the strain of learning the slender constitu- 
 tion of his only heir, but feared still more to make his son his rival, and 
 therefore deliberately kept him in the dark. During the lifetime of 
 Louis XL, Charles and his mother were little better than prisoners at 
 Amboise. Here Queen Charlotte, shut out from the world, passed her 
 dreary days in the reading of romances, and this taste <.>l hers was shared 
 and inherited by her imaginative and ignorant young son.
 
 190 The Fortunate Lovers 
 
 prince's room. And when all were gone to dinner he 
 prayed a body-servant to let him come and read, and 
 to shut him up in the room, and keep good watch over 
 the door. The man, knowing him for a kinsman of his 
 master,^ and one to be trusted, let him read as much as 
 he would. On the other hand Rolandine would come 
 to her window, and that she might the longer stay 
 there, feigned to have a diseased leg, and dined and 
 supped so early that she went no more to dinner with 
 the other ladies. She likewise set herself to make a 
 quilt of crimson silk,^ which she fixed at the window, 
 whereat she was fain to be alone, and when she saw 
 there was no one at hand she held parley with her hus- 
 band, who answered her in such a voice that could not 
 be heard by others. And when she saw any folk she 
 would cough and make some sign to him, so that he 
 might get him gone in good time. They that played 
 the spy on them were persuaded that all love passages 
 were over, for she never stirred from a room whither of 
 a certainty he could not come, since he was altogether 
 forbidden to enter it. But one day the prince's mother, 
 being in her son's room, placed herself at the window 
 where was the .great book of Romances, and she had not 
 been there a long while before one of Rolandine's com- 
 panions saw her and spoke to her. The lady asked her 
 how fared Rolandine, and the girl replied that she 
 could see for herself if it were her pleasure, and made 
 Rolandine come to the window in her nightcap. So, 
 after speaking about her sickness, each went back to her 
 own place. The lady, looking at the great book of the 
 Round Table, said to the servant who had charge of it : 
 
 ^ He was, as I have said, the uncle of the little Francis. 
 
 ^ Un lict de reseul : reticella, a sort of open-worked embroidery.
 
 Day the Third. 191 
 
 " I marvel how young folk can waste their time in the 
 reading of such folly ! " The man answered that he 
 marvelled still more that men of age and of repute ^ for 
 wisdom were exceedingly delighted with it ; and as a 
 matter for astonishment, told her how the gentleman, her 
 kinsman, stayed at the window four or five hours every 
 day to read in this fine book aforesaid. Straightway 
 the reason of it came into the lady's mind, and she 
 charged the servant to hide himself close at hand and 
 take account of what happened. This he did, and 
 found this gentleman's book to be the window whither 
 Rolandine came and spoke to him, and heard many a 
 love-passage they thought to have kept altogether 
 secret. On the morrow he bore this to his mistress, 
 who sent for the gentleman, and after chiding him, 
 forbade him any more to be in that place ; and in the 
 evening she spoke to Rolandine, threatening her that, if 
 she continued in this foolish love, she would tell the 
 Queen of all her doings. Rolandine, no whit afraid, 
 swore that after her mistress's forbidding her she had 
 never spoken to him, let them say what they would, and 
 she called her fellows and servants to witness that such 
 was the truth. And for the matter of the window, she 
 denied to have spoken there to the gentleman ; but he, 
 fearing the thing was made known, withdrew himself 
 from the danger, and was a long time without returning 
 to Court, but not without writing to Rolandine in such 
 subtle fashion that, howsoever much the Queen might 
 play the spy, there was not a week in which she did not 
 twice get news of him. 
 
 And when a monkish messenger, who was the first he 
 
 ^ This phrase seems to bear out the likelihood of Rolandine's lover 
 being no green youth, but u man of forty, such as John of Angouleme.
 
 192 The Fortunate Lover's. 
 
 had used, failed him, he sent her a little page, now- 
 dressed in one colour and now in another. And he 
 would stop at the doors, through which all the ladies 
 were wont to pass, and give her the letters privily in the 
 press. But one day, the Queen going into the country, 
 a certain one whose charge it was to look after this 
 affair, recognised the page and ran after him ; but he, 
 who was of keen wit, suspecting that he would be 
 searched, entered the house of a poor woman who had 
 her pot on the fire, and forthwith burnt up the letters. 
 The gentleman followed him up and stripped him quite 
 naked, and thoroughly searched his vesture, but found 
 nothing, and so let him go. Whereupon the old woman 
 asked the gentleman why he had searched the boy. 
 He said to her: " To find certain letters which I thought 
 he had carried." " By no means could you have found 
 them," said the woman, " so well were they hidden." 
 " I pray you," said he, " tell me in what slit they are 
 hidden," having a good hope of getting them back. 
 But w^hen he understood that the fire was the hiding 
 place, he knew the page to have been the keener of the 
 two, and made report of the whole matter to the Queen. 
 And from henceforth Rolandine's husband could no 
 more avail himself of the page ; so he sent an old 
 servant, who, forgetting the death that he knew Avell 
 the Oueen threatened against those who intermeddled 
 with this matter,! undertook to carry letters to Rolan- 
 
 ^ Queen Anne, a Bretonne, the proudest, the most rigid of her race, 
 mny have been inspired not only by her enmity to Rolandine, but by her 
 horror of the thought that one, who was her own cousin, should bring the 
 bar sinister into her quarterings. Anne was a proud, a shrewd, a bitter 
 nature. Her husband, who loved her, had often to excuse it: "One 
 must endure a great deal," he would say, "on the part of a good 
 woman. "
 
 Day the Third. 193 
 
 dine. And when he was entered in unto the castle 
 where she was, he set himself to watch by a door at the 
 foot of the grand staircase whither all the ladies passed ; 
 but a servant who before had seen him straightway 
 knew him, and told the Queen's master of the house- 
 hold, who presently came to seek him and clap him up. 
 But the messenger, prudent and wary, seeing they looked 
 at him from far off, turned himself to the wall, and tearing 
 up the letter into as small pieces as he could, threw them 
 behind a door. Forthwith he was taken and searched in 
 every way ; but when they could find nothing they asked 
 him on his oath if he had not brought letters, using with 
 him all manner of threats and persuasions to make him 
 to confess the truth ; but promising or threatening, it 
   was all one, and they none the wiser. Report of this 
 came to the Queen, and certain of the company were of 
 the opinion that it would be well to look behind the 
 door near which he was taken ; and this being done 
 they found that they sbught — namely, the pieces of the 
 letter. Then was summoned the King's confessor, who 
 after putting the pieces in order on a table, read the 
 letter at length ; and so was brought to light the truth 
 concerning the concealed marriage, for the gentleman 
 called Rolandine nothing but zvife. The Queen, who 
 had no mind to cover her neighbour's misdeeds, as she 
 ought to have done, made a great noise of it, and com- 
 manded that every way should be tried to make the 
 poor man confess the truth of the letter ; and when it 
 was shown to him he could not deny it, but whatever 
 they said or showed to him he would say no more. 
 Those who had charge of him then led him, to the bank 
 of the river and put him in a sack, saying that he had 
 lied to God and the Queen against the proven truth. 
 
 N
 
 194 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 He, who had rather lose his life than make accusation 
 against his master, asked of them a confessor, and after 
 easing his conscience as well as might be, he said to 
 them : " Good sirs, I pray you tell my lord that I com- 
 mend to him the life of my wife and children, for with 
 hearty goodwill I give my life for his service. Now do 
 your pleasure on me, for no word will I utter against 
 my master. Thereupon, all the more to affright him, 
 they threw him bound up in the sack into the river, 
 calHng to him : " Tell the truth and your life shall be 
 spared." But perceiving that he answered them not a 
 word, they drew him from the water and brought the 
 report of it to the Queen, who said that neither the 
 King her husband nor herself had such good fortune in 
 their servants as a man who had not wherewithal to 
 pay them. And she would fain have drawn him into 
 her service, but he would by no means of his own will 
 leave his master. Natheless, by the leave of the said 
 master, he took service under the Queen, where he lived 
 in happiness and good contentment. 
 
 And the Queen being acquainted with the truth of 
 the marriage by the gentleman's letter, made summon 
 Rolandine, and with a wrathful countenance calling her 
 zvretcJi in place of coushi, laid before her the shame she 
 had done her father's house, her kinsfolk, and her mis- 
 tress, in marrying without her leave or commandment. 
 Rolandine, who for a long while had known the small 
 love the Queen bore her, gave her as little in return. 
 And since love was wanting between them neither had 
 fear any place, and Rolandine thought likewise that 
 this rebuke before several persons did not proceed so 
 much from love as from a desire to do her an open 
 shame, the Queen taking more pleasure in chiding her
 
 Day the Thu'd. 195 
 
 than grief at seeing her in fault. So with a face as 
 glad and assured as the Queen's was wrathful and 
 troubled, she replied : " Mistress, did you not plainly 
 know your own heart and the manner of it, I would set 
 before you the ill-will you have for a long time borne 
 against my father and myself, but this you know so 
 well that it will not appear marvellous to you that all 
 the world has a suspicion of it ; and as for me, I have 
 felt this intent of yours to my great hurt. For, if it 
 had been your pleasure to favour me as you do those 
 who are not so near akin as I, I should now have been 
 married both to your honour and mine, but you have 
 left me as one altogether deprived of your grace, so 
 that all the good matches I might have made are passed 
 away before my eyes, by reason of my father's neglect 
 and the small account you make of me. At this I fell 
 into such despair, that if my health allowed of it, I had 
 entered into the religious life, and so escaped from the 
 continual sorrows your severity laid upon me. In this 
 sad case one sought me out, who would have been of 
 as noble blood as myself, if the love of two persons 
 were to be as much esteemed as the wedding-ring, for 
 you know that his father was before mine in precedency.'- 
 And he for a long while has courted me and loved me ; 
 but you, mistress, who never pardon me any petty 
 fault, nor praise me for any good deed ; although you 
 well knew that it was not my custom to listen to worldly 
 love passages, and that I was altogether given up to 
 devotion ; have found it a strange thing that I should 
 speak with a gentleman as unfortunate as myself, from 
 
 ^ Of course the Count of Angouleme, as a prince of the blood, took 
 precedence in France not only of the Viscounts of Rohan but of the Uuke 
 of Brittany himself.
 
 T96 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 whom I neither wished nor sought anything except 
 some matter of consolation. And when I saw this 
 consolation taken away from me, I was resolved to 
 take as much pains to gain it as you took to deprive 
 me of it ; whereupon we promised each other marriage, 
 and confirmed the promise with a ring. Methinks, 
 therefore, you do me great wrong to call me zuicked, 
 since in this great and perfect love, in which I found 
 the consolation I longed for, there passed between us 
 nothing worse than kissing, all else being deferred by 
 me till, by the grace of God, my father's heart should 
 be inclined to consent thereto. Sure am I that I have 
 in no way offended God nor my conscience, for I waited 
 till the age of thirty years to see what you and my 
 father would do for me, having kept my youth so 
 chastely and virtuously that no living man can cast 
 anything in my teeth. And using the reason given to 
 me by God, seeing myself growing old, and despairing 
 of finding a match according to my estate, I resolved to 
 marry one according to my wish ; not for the satisfac- 
 tion of the lust of the flesh, since there has been no 
 carnal consummation ; nor for the lust of the eyes, 
 since you know he is not comely ; nor for the pride of 
 life, he being poor and of small reputation. But I have 
 taken account alone of the virtue that is in him, the 
 which all men are constrained to laud and magnify ; 
 also of the great love he bears me, by reason of which 
 I hope to find with him a life of quiet and good treat- 
 ment. And after weighing duly both the good and the 
 evil that may come of it, I have fixed on him who 
 seems to me the best, and with whom I have deter- 
 mined for the last two years to pass the remainder of 
 my days. And so steadfast is this my resolve, that
 
 Day the Third, I97 
 
 not all the torments I may endure — no, not death 
 itself — can turn me from it. Wherefore I pray you 
 to excuse that which in truth is very excusable, and 
 leave me to live in that peace which I hope to find with 
 him." 
 
 The Queen, seeing her face to be so steadfast and 
 her words so true, could not answer in reason, but, 
 continuing in wrath to reproach her, at last fell to 
 weeping, and said : " Wretch that you are, in place of 
 humbling yourself before me, and repenting of your 
 great fault, you speak dry-eyed and audaciously, and so 
 make manifest the obstinacy and hardness of your 
 heart. But if the King and your father will listen to 
 me, they will put you in a place where you will be con- 
 strained to talk after another fashion." " Mistress," 
 answered Rolandine, " since you accuse me of speaking 
 audaciously, I will be silent, if it is not your pleasure 
 that I should reply to you." And being commanded to 
 speak, she said to the Queen : " It is not my part to 
 speak audaciously and without due reverence to you 
 who are my mistress and the greatest princess in 
 Christendom ; and this it was by no means m)' intent 
 to do, but since I can call no advocate to speak for me, 
 save the truth that is known only by me, I am con- 
 strained to tell it plainly and without fear, hoping that 
 when you know it you will not esteem me what it has 
 been your pleasure to name me. I am not afraid of 
 any living creature hearing how I have kept myself in 
 this matter, since I know that I have thereby offended 
 neither God nor my honour. And since I am persuaded 
 that He who sees my heart is on my side, wherefore 
 should I fear } And having this Judge for me, shall I 
 of His subjects be afraid .' And for what cause should
 
 198 The Forhinate Lovers. 
 
 I weep, since neither my conscience nor my heart do at 
 all reprove me ? — nay, so far am I from repentance, that 
 if I could make a new beginning I would do even as I 
 have done. But you, indeed, have good cause for 
 weeping, as much for the wrongs you did me in my 
 youth as for that you now reproach me before all for a 
 thing which is rather to be imputed to you than me. 
 If I had justly offended God, the King, you, my kins- 
 folk, and my conscience, I should be hard of heart if I 
 did not repent with weeping. But for so befitting and 
 holy an agreement, in which no fault can be found save 
 that you have too soon blazed it abroad, showing there- 
 by that you have a greater desire for my dishonour 
 than for preserving the good repute of your house and 
 kinsfolk, I by no means ought to weep ; yet, mistress, 
 since such is your pleasure, I will not gainsay you ; for 
 whatever pains you lay upon mc, I being innocent, will 
 take no less pleasure in the enduring of them than you 
 in the inflicting. Wherefore give what commands you 
 please to my father, and I am well assured that he will 
 not fail you, and as far as my ill is affected he will be 
 altogether your creature ; and as obedient to your will 
 he has hitherto neglected my good, so he will be quick 
 to obey you for my evil. But I have a Father in 
 heaven, who, I am assured, will give me patience to bear 
 all your torments, and in Him alone do I put my trust." 
 At this the Queen was still more wrathful, and com- 
 manded that she should be taken out of her sight and 
 put in a room by herself, where she might have speech 
 Avith no one. But she did not deprive her of her 
 gouvernante, by whose means she let her husband know 
 her case, and that which she thought it was best for 
 him to do. And he, thinking the deeds he had done
 
 Day the TJiird. 199 
 
 in the King's service^ might avail him something, came 
 post haste to Court and found the King a-hunting, and 
 told him the truth of the matter, entreating him to do 
 so much for a poor gentleman as to appease the Queen 
 in such sort that the marriage might be consummated. 
 The King replied nothing save : " Do you assure me 
 that you have taken her to wife ? " " Ay, sire," said 
 the gentleman, " by word and gift alone ; and if it 
 please you, we'll make an ending to it." The King, 
 lowering his head, and without saying a word more, 
 returned forthwith to his castle, and when he was come 
 thither, gave charge to the captain of the guards that he 
 should take the gentleman prisoner. Natheless, one of 
 his acquaintance, who knew the King's intent by his 
 visage, counselled him to get him gone and stay in a 
 house hard-by ; and if the King made search for him, 
 as he suspected he would, he would presently let him 
 know so that he might fly the realm ; but if things were 
 softened down he would send word for him to come 
 back. And the gentleman, trusting in his friend, made 
 such good speed that the captain of the guards could 
 not at all find him. 
 
 The King and Queen took counsel together what 
 they should do with this poor lady, who had the honour 
 of being akin to them, and by the advice of the Queen 
 it was determined that she should be sent back to her 
 father, who was informed of the whole truth. But 
 before she was sent they made several weighty doctors 
 of the Church and Council hold parley with her, to the 
 intent that since her miarriage was a matter only of 
 words, it could easily be dissolved by the agreement of 
 
 1 John of Angoiileme was cousin-german, by the left hand, of King Louis, 
 and, of course, had sufl'ered the chequered fortunes of the House of Orleans.
 
 SCO The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 both parties, this being the King's will on the matter, 
 to preserve the honour of his house. Her reply was 
 that in all things she was ready to obey the King save 
 in cases of conscience, but those whom God hath joined 
 together it is lawful for no man to put asunder. So 
 she prayed them to tempt her no more, saying that if 
 love and goodwill, founded on the fear of God, are the 
 true and sure bonds of marriage, she was so fast in 
 bonds that neither fire, sword, nor water could burst 
 them, but death alone, to whom and to no other she 
 would give up her ring and her oath, and so entreated 
 them to speak no more on't ; for she stood so firm in 
 her resolve that she had rather die and keep faith than 
 live and break it. So these doctors aforesaid carried 
 back to the King her answer ; and when the King and 
 Queen saw that there was no way to make her renounce 
 her husband, they sent her back to her father in such 
 mean and pitiful sort that they who beheld her pass by 
 wept to see it. And though she was in fault, so grievous 
 was the punishment and so great her steadfastness, that 
 this fault of hers was commonly accounted as a virtue. 
 And her father, being advised of this her coming, would 
 by no means see her, but made bear her to a castle in 
 a forest, the which he had aforetime built for a reason 
 well worthy to be told. And there he kept her for a 
 long while, saying that if she would renounce her hus- 
 band he would hold her for his daughter and set her 
 free. All the same she remained firm, and preferred 
 to remain in the bonds both of prison and marriage 
 than to have all the freedom in the world without her 
 husband. And by the manner of her countenance one 
 would have judged her pains to have been most pleas- 
 ant pastimes, for she bore them for the sake of him 
 whom she loved.
 
 Day the Third. 20 e 
 
 And as to men, what shall I sa}' concerning them ? 
 Her husband, so deeply under obligation to her, fled to 
 a country where he had manj^ friends, I would say 
 Germany. And there he showed well by the lightness 
 of his disposition that not so much had he paid court to 
 Roland ine by reason of a true and perfect love, as by 
 reason of his covetousness and ambition. For he be- 
 came amorous of a German lady, and forgot his letters 
 to her who for his sake had borne so great tribulation. 
 And whereas no ill-fortune, however rigorous, had 
 hindered them from writing to one another, till this 
 foolish and wicked love of his, so grievous was it to 
 Rolandine that she knew no rest. And seeing his 
 letters that they were cold and altogether changed from 
 what they had been, she suspected that some new lo\-e 
 separated her husband from her, and had done that 
 which all the torments and pains of her could not effect. 
 But since perfect love buildeth not judgment upon 
 suspicion, she found means to secretly send a servant in 
 whom she trusted, not to write or speak with her 
 husband, but to spy out his ways and discover the 
 truth. And this servant, having returned from his 
 journey, told her that of a surety he had found him 
 paying court to a German lady, and that the common 
 report was that he would endeavour to marry her, since 
 she was very rich. These tidings gave such sorrow to 
 the heart of Rolandine that she fell grievously sick, and 
 they w ho knew the reason of it told her, on behalf of 
 her father, that after this great wrong done her she 
 would do right to renounce him, and strove to bring her 
 to this opinion. But notwithstanding that she was in 
 very great torment, yet in no way would she change her 
 purpose, and showed in this last temptation the great-
 
 202 The Forhmate Lovers. 
 
 ness of her love and virtue. For as love grew less on 
 his side, so it grew more on hers, and when she knew 
 that in her heart alone now dwelt the love that formerly 
 was between the two, she was resolved to preserve it 
 until the death of the one or the other. Wherefore the 
 Divine Goodness, which is perfect charity and true love, 
 had pity on her grief and her long-suffering, so that 
 after a few days her husband died while courting 
 another woman. And being well informed of this by 
 those who had seen him laid in the ground, she sent to 
 her father entreating him that he would come and speak 
 to her. The father, who had never spoken to her since 
 she was first put in bonds, went forthwith, and after 
 having heard her just conclusions, in place of reproving 
 her, or as he had often threatened, of killing her, he 
 took her in his arms, and weeping, said : " My daughter, 
 you are more in the right than I ; for, if there have been 
 any fault in this matter, it is I that am the chief cause 
 thereof; but since God has so ordered it, I wish to make 
 satisfaction for what has passed." And after that he 
 had brought her to his house, he treated her as his eldest 
 daughter,^ and she was asked in marriage by a prudent 
 and virtuous gentleman who bore the arms and name of 
 their house. And he held Roland ine, with whom he 
 often talked, in such esteem that he gave her praise 
 where others had but blame for her, since he knew her 
 end and aim to have been virtue. Which marriage, 
 being to the mind of the father, was before long con- 
 
 1 Anne de Rohan was the third child and elder daughter of her father. 
 She married in 1517 her kinsman, Pierre de Rohan, the third son of the 
 great Marechal de Gie, so familiar to all who have invaded Italy with 
 Charles VIII. Anne de Rohan lived happily with him, and bore him, as 
 the novel sets forth, two sons. Anne de Rohan was the mother of Ren6 
 de Rohan, who is, in my opinion, the Saffredent of the " Heptameron."
 
 Day the Third. 203 
 
 eluded. It Is true that a brother of hers, the sole heir 
 of their house, would give her no portion, saying that 
 she had disobeyed her father, and after his death 
 entreated her in such sort that her husband, who was a 
 younger son, and herself, had much ado to live. But 
 God provided for them, since the brother who wished to 
 keep all, by his sudden death, in a single day lost all, 
 both of his and hers. So was she made heiress to a 
 good and rich estate, in which, with her husband's love, 
 she lived piously and honourably. And after having 
 brought up two sons which God gave to them, she 
 joyously rendered her soul to Him in whom she had 
 always placed her trust. 
 
 "Now, ladies, let the men who say we are inconstant 
 ever, show me an example of a husband like this wife, 
 and of as good faith and steadfastness. So sure am I 
 that it will be a hard matter for them, that I prefer to 
 hold them quit of it, than put them to the pain of this 
 endeavour. But as to you, ladies, I exhort you, for the 
 better retention of your renown, either not to love at all, 
 or with as perfect a love as was that of Rolandine. And 
 beware lest any say she did wrong to her honour, for by 
 her steadfastness, she worked to the increasing of ours." 
 " Faith, Parlamente," said Oisille, " you have told us the 
 story of a woman with a great and honourable heart ; 
 but that which adds to her glory is the disloyalty of her 
 husband, who could leave her for another." " I think," 
 said Longarine, "that this was the hardest to be borne 
 of all her sorrows, for there is no grief so great but the 
 united love of two cannot easily bear : but when the one 
 fails in his duty, and leaves all the burden upon the 
 other, then indeed it becomes unbearable." "You 
 ought then to have compassion on us," said Geburon,
 
 204 The Forhmate Lovers. 
 
 "who carry the whole weight of love, which you will 
 
 not so much as touch with the tips of your fingers." 
 
 "Ah, Geburon," said Parlamente, "often the burdens of 
 
 men and women are different. For the love of a woman, 
 
 well-founded upon God and her honour, is so good and 
 
 reasonable a thing that he who falls therefrom is worthy 
 
 to be accounted poltroon and villain before God and 
 
 man. But the love of men for the most part is merely 
 
 a matter of pleasure, into which women, ignorant of 
 
 their evil intent, cast themselves all too soon; and when 
 
 God shows them how vile are the hearts of those they 
 
 esteem good, they are well advised to get them gone, 
 
 with their honour and reputation, for ' soonest ended 
 
 best mended.' " " This conclusion of yours is built upon 
 
 mere fantasy," said Hircan ; " if you would maintain 
 
 by it that honourable women can with honour leave the 
 
 love of men, and not men that of wofnen, as if the 
 
 hearts of them in anywise differed, as do their faces and 
 
 gear." To this Parlamente, somewhat angry, replied : 
 
 " I know well that with you the best women are those 
 
 whose wickedness is best known." " Let us leave this 
 
 talk," said Simontault, " for whether we take the heart 
 
 of man or the heart of woman, the better of the two is 
 
 nothing worth. But to whom will Parlamente give her 
 
 vote, that we may hear some brave relation .'"' 
 
 * * -it * * 
 
 " I give it," said she, " to Dagoucin, whom I behold 
 in such contemplation as must be the preparing for 
 some good story." " Since I dare not say what I 
 would," answered Dagoucin, " at least I will speak of 
 one to whom cruelty at the first brought hurt, though 
 afterwards it profited him. For though Love doth 
 esteem himself so puissant a warrior that he would fain
 
 Day the Thit'd. 205 
 
 g"o stark naked, and can scarce bear to lie concealed, 
 yet ladies, they that obey his counsels and declare 
 themselves too soon, are often broug^ht into an evil case. 
 And the thing so fell out with a Castilian gentleman, 
 whose story you shall hear." 
 
 NOVEL XXIV. 
 
 The cruelty of a Queen of Cast ill e to one of her lo'c'ers, and the 
 profit he took thereby. 
 
 In the household of the King and Oueen of Castille 
 — the names of them I know not, for they were not told 
 me — there was a gentleman so excellently endued with 
 all comeliness of mind, body, and estate, that there was 
 none equal to him in all the coasts of Spain. All men 
 admired his virtues, but still more the strangeness of 
 him, for none could show any lady he loved or ever had 
 loved. And though there was many a dame at Court 
 fit to have set ice on fire, not one was there who could 
 take hold on this gentleman, whose name was Elisor. 
 
 The Queen, who was a woman of much virtuousness, 
 but not altogether free from that flame wTiich burns the 
 more the less it is perceived, seeing this gentleman that 
 he loved none of her ladies, marvelled thereat, and one 
 day asked him if it were possible that he loved as little 
 as he seemed to do it. He replied that if she could 
 behold his heart as plainly as his face, she would not 
 ask him that question. She, anxious to discover his 
 intent, pressed him so hard that he acknowledged to 
 loving a lady whom he thought the best in Christen- 
 dom. All her endeavour, both by praj-ers and com- 
 mandments, did she use that she might know who the
 
 2o6 The ForttLnate Lovers. 
 
 lady was, but 'twas of no avail ; whereupon she made 
 pretence of anger, and swore she would no more speak 
 to him if he did not name her he loved. At this he was 
 so troubled that he said he would rather die than be 
 obliged to name her ; but seeing that he would lose the 
 Queen's favour by not telling her a thing so honourable 
 that it ought not to be taken in bad part by any one, 
 he said to her in great fear : " Madame, I have not 
 boldness sufficient for the telling of it, but the first time 
 }^ou go a- hunting I will show you the lady, and sure am 
 I that you will esteem her to be the prettiest and the 
 loveliest lady in all the world." For the sake of this 
 the Queen took good care to go earlier a-hunting than 
 she would have done, and Elisor being advertised of 
 this made himself ready, as was his wont, for the attend- 
 ing of her. And this was the manner of his preparation : 
 he made him a great mirror of steel after the fashion of 
 a cuirasse, and having put it on him, covered it well 
 with a cloak of black frieze all welted with purflew and 
 gold galloon. His mount was a jet-black horse, capari- 
 soned with a perfect harness, and whatsoever of this 
 was metal was worked with gold and black enamel after 
 the fashion of the Moors. His hat was of black silk, 
 and on it was fixed a cockade which had been devised 
 of a love held back by force, and all made rich with 
 precious stones. Sword and dagger were not less fine 
 nor worse devised ; to be short, he showed most bravely, 
 and rode his horse to admiration, so that all who saw 
 him left the chase to watch the paces and the leaps 
 which Elisor made it accomplish. After bringing the 
 Queen to the place where the toils were set in the fine 
 fashion I have told you, he got down from his horse 
 and went to help the Queen dismount her palfrey. And
 
 Day the Third. 207 
 
 as she stretched out her arms to him he threw open his 
 cloak, and taking her between his arms he showed her 
 his mirror cuirasse, saying : " I beseech you look here." 
 And without waiting any reply he set her gently on the 
 ground. The chase being ended, the Queen returned 
 to her castle without speaking with Elisor; but after 
 supper she called him to her, saying he was the greatest 
 liar she had ever seen, for he had promised to show her 
 at the hunt the lady whom he loved most, and had not 
 done it, wherefore she was determined to take no more 
 account of him. Elisor, fearing she had not heard what 
 he had said, replied that he had by no means failed to 
 fulfil her commandment, for he had shown her both the 
 woman and the thing he loved more than all the world. 
 She, feigning not to understand him, answered that she 
 did not know him to have shown her a single one of 
 her ladies. " It is true," said Elisor, " but whom did 
 I show you while I helped you off your horse.'" 
 " Nothing," replied the Queen, " but a mirror on your 
 breast." "And what did you see in that mirror.?" 
 " Nothing but myself," answered the Queen, " Then," 
 said Elisor, " have I kept the promise I made to you, 
 for there is no other image within my breast than that 
 you saw outside it, and that image alone I am fain to 
 love, worship, and adore, not as a woman, but as my 
 God on earth, into the hands of whom I commit my 
 life and my death. And my prayer to you is that this 
 my great and perfect love, that was my life concealed, 
 may not be my death revealed. And though I be not 
 worthy that you should look upon me or accept me as 
 your lover, at least suffer me to live, as I have been 
 accustomed, in the contentment which I have for that 
 my heart has dared to bottom its love on so perfect
 
 2o8 The Foi^timaU Lovers. 
 
 and worthy a rock, from which love I can have no other 
 delight except that it is perfect, seeing I must be con- 
 tent to love, though I may never be loved. And if it 
 be not to your liking, since you have discovered my 
 great desire, to use me so familiarly as heretofore, do 
 but continue to me my life, which stands alone upon 
 my seeing of you. For from you I have now nothing 
 but what suffices for my extreme necessity, and if I 
 have less you will have one servant the less, for you will 
 lose the best and most devoted you have ever had or 
 ever will have." The Queen, either to show herself 
 other than she was, or to make long trial of the love he 
 bore her, or because she had another lover whom she 
 would not leave for the sake of him, or to hold him as 
 a reserve to take the other's place when he should 
 commit some fault, said with a countenance nor sad nor 
 glad : " Elisor, since I know not the strength of love, I 
 will say nothing to you of your foolishness in aiming at 
 so high and hard a thing as the love of me ; for I know 
 man holds his heart so little at command, that he is not 
 able to love or hate where he pleases ; but since you 
 have so well concealed the matter, I wish to know how 
 long you have been in this case." Elisor, looking at 
 the beautiful face of her, and seeing that she made 
 enquiry concerning his sickness, hoped that it might 
 be to her liking to furnish the remedy. But seeing 
 that while she asked him she still looked gravely and 
 prudently, he was afraid, seeming to himself to be before 
 a judge, whose sentence he feared would be against him. 
 But he swore to her that love had taken root in his heart 
 w4iile he was very young, but he had not felt the pain 
 till the last seven years, or rather no pain but a sickness, 
 giving such contentment that to be cured of it would be
 
 Day the Third. 209 
 
 death. " Since you have so long and so steadfastly- 
 kept the matter secret," said the Queen, " I must be as 
 slow to believe as you to tell. Wherefore, if it is as 
 you say, I am fain to put you to such a proof as cannot 
 be doubted, which accomplished, I will esteem you to 
 be towards me even according to your oath, and in like 
 manner you shall find me such as you desire." Elisor 
 entreated her to make what proof she pleased of him, 
 since there could be nothing so difficult as not easily to 
 be borne, if by it she would believe the love he bore 
 her, and prayed her instantly to command him accord- 
 ing to her pleasure. She therefore said to him: "Elisor, 
 if you love me even as you say, I am well assured that 
 to have my favour nothing will be hard for you to 
 endure. Wherefore I charge you by all the desire you 
 have to win me, and all the fear you have to lose me, 
 that to-morrow, without again seeing me, you depart 
 hence and betake yourself to some place where you 
 shall have no tidings of me, nor I of you, till this day 
 seven years. You, since for seven years you have felt 
 this love, are well persuaded of it ; and I, when I have 
 had equal experience, shall believe what your word 
 alone cannot make me to believe nor understand." 
 Elisor, hearing this cruel command, on one part doubted 
 whether she was not desirous of estranging herself from 
 him, on the other part hoping that the proof would 
 speak better than words, accepted it, and said to her : 
 " Being that I have lived these seven years without any 
 hope, and keeping this fire concealed ; now that it is 
 known of you, I shall spend these other seven in a 
 better hope and patience. But if I obey your command, 
 by which I shall be deprived of all the good I have in 
 the world, what hope do you give that when they arc 
 
 O
 
 2 lo Th^ Forhinate Lovers. 
 
 overpast you will accept me for your faithful and loyal 
 servant? " The Queen, drawing a ring from her finger,- 
 said to him : " Behold this ring I give you, let us cut it 
 into halves, I will keep the one and you the other, to 
 the end that, if length of time have power to take away 
 my memory of you, I shall be able to recognise you by 
 this half-ring fitting with mine." Elisor took the ring 
 and broke it into two, giving one-half to the Queen and 
 keeping the other himself And having taken leave of 
 her, more dead than they who have given up the ghost, 
 he went to his lodging to take order for his departure. 
 This he did in such sort that, putting all in train at his 
 house, he betook him with but one servant to so solitary 
 a place that none of his kinsfolk or his friends heard 
 tidings of him for seven whole years. As to the life he 
 led during this time, or as to the grief he bore for this 
 absence, none knew of it, but they that loved him could 
 not be ignorant of it. And when the seven years were 
 accomplished, as the Queen went to mass there came 
 to her a hermit with a mighty long beard, who, kissing 
 her hand, gave her a supplication, which she did not 
 forthwith read, though it was her custom to take all 
 supplications given into her hand, however poor might 
 be the petitioner. But about the middle of mass she 
 opened the packet, and found in it the half of the ring 
 she had given Elisor, at which she was astonished and 
 not a little glad. And before the reading of it she 
 commanded her almoner that he should straightway 
 bring before her the hermit-like man who had given her 
 the supplication. So the almoner made search for him 
 on all sides, but could have no tidings of him, save that 
 a certain one affirmed that he had seen him mount his 
 horse, but knew not the road he took. And while that
 
 Day the Third. 2 1 1. 
 
 her almoner was gone the Queen read the supplication, 
 •the which was indeed a letter written as well as might 
 be. And were it not that I desired you should under- 
 stand it, I would not have translated it, since, ladies, 
 you must know that the Castilian far better sets forth 
 this passion of love than any other. And this was the 
 manner of it : 
 
 " Time by its power and over-ruling might 
 Hath made me love to understand aright. 
 Time hath been given me so that by my woe 
 She who believed not words might surely know 
 The truth of them. My love, the cause of it 
 Time hath disclosed ; 'twas beauty and not wit. 
 Below this beauty is much cruelty, 
 But Time, I once had for mine enemy, 
 Hath shown your beauty to be profitless, 
 Your cruelty the way to holiness. 
 For when you drove me from you, and no more 
 I saw the face I did so much adore, 
 I saw what was below ; then all my grief 
 In exile was converted to relief. 
 And there had stayed without a tear or sigh, 
 Save that to give my most supreme goodbye 
 I came to-day. For Time hath shown how bare 
 And poor a thing is love ; and all my care 
 Is for the years I lost. But then above 
 Time raised mine eyes unto the perfect love, 
 And made lay by the other : unto this 
 Is all my worship ; and my service is 
 Done unto God, not you. You gave me death 
 For loving you, but it turned to my breath. 
 My life, my joy. — I fully hold you quit 
 Of love for me, I have no need of it, 
 Not yet of you, but only my dear Lord, 
 Who changeth not and hath a sure reward. 
 So I take leave of cruelty and pain, 
 And say my last to hatred and disdain.
 
 212 The Fo7^tunate Lovers. 
 
 Likewise unto that awful flaming fire 
 That dwells in you, and stirreth up desire, 
 As well as beauty. So to you, ' Good-bye,' 
 And be assured that never more shall I 
 Behold your face, nor shall you look on me 
 Ever again : this hold for certainty." 
 
 This letter was not read without much weeping and 
 lamentation, accompanied by a regret passing all belief. 
 For the losing of a servant, filled with so perfect a love, 
 deserved to be esteemed so great, that no treasure, no, 
 not her very kingdom, could deprive her of her right to 
 be called the poorest and the most wretched woman in 
 the world, since she had lost what all the blessings of 
 the world were not able to recover. And having heard 
 mass to the end and returned to her chamber, she 
 grieved exceedingly even as her cruelty deserved. And 
 no mountain, rock, or forest was there, that she did not 
 search for this hermit ; but He who had borne him from 
 her hands had a care he should not fall into them again, 
 and took him to Paradise, before that she could gain 
 tidings of him in this world. 
 
 " Learning by this example the lover can hardly say 
 what is for his good and what for his evil. Still less, 
 ladies, ought you to be thus hard of belief as to demand 
 a proof so difficult that getting your proof you lose 
 your lover." " Of a truth, Dagoucin," said Geburon, 
 " I had all my life esteemed the lady of your tale the 
 most virtuous in the world, but from henceforth I shall 
 hold her the most cruel." " Nevertheless," said Parle- 
 mente, " it seems to me that she did him no wrong in 
 wishing for seven years to try if he loved her ; for men 
 are so accustomed to lie in like cases that before one 
 trusts them (if trust them one can) one cannot make
 
 Day the Third. 2 1 3 
 
 too long a trial of it." "The ladies," said Hircan, " are 
 by far wiser than afore, for they are as well assured of 
 a lover in seven days as the others were in seven years." 
 " Yet in this company," said Longarine, " there are they 
 who have been proved to the extremity for more than 
 seven years, and have not yet gained their desire." 
 " You say truth," said Simontault, " but they should be 
 put among the ladies of old time, for in the new age 
 they would not be received." " Yet," said Oisille, " was 
 not the gentleman well treated by the Queen, since by 
 her means he gave his heart altogether to God .'' " " In 
 a fortunate hour," said Safifredent, " he found God upon 
 the way, for in the grief he was in I marvel he gave 
 himself not to the devil." Ennasuitte asked him : 
 " And when you are evilly entreated of your lady, is it to 
 such a master that you render yourself ^ " " Thousands 
 and thousands of times have I given myself to him," 
 answered Safifredent ; " but the devil, seeing all the 
 torments of hell cannot make me fare worse than does 
 my lady, disdains to take me, knowing himself to be 
 more easily borne than a woman well-beloved and who 
 loves not in return." " If I were like you," said Parla- 
 mente to Safifredent, " with such opinions as yours, I 
 would be the servant of no woman." " So great," he 
 replied, " is my love and my foolishness that where I 
 cannot rule I am content to serve, for the ladies' ill-will 
 cannot overcome the love I have for them." " But, 
 prithee, tell me, on your conscience, do you praise the 
 Queen for this her great severity ? " " Ay," said Oisille, 
 " for I believe that she neither wished to love nor be 
 beloved." " If this was her intent," said Simontault, 
 " wherefore did she give him any hope after the seven 
 years were overpast.?" "I am of your opinion," said
 
 2 i 4 The Foi'hinate Lovers, 
 
 Longarine, " for let them who wish not to love give no 
 occasion to the continuance of love." " Perchance," 
 said Nomerfide, " she loved some other who was not to 
 be compared with this honest gentleman, and so for a 
 worse left the better." " Oddsfish ! " said Simontault, 
 " I think she held him for future use, to take him when 
 she left her present lover. Oddsfish j * * * * 'tis no 
 great honour in a woman to refuse so poor and 
 patient a fellow as this. And since I suspect I know 
 
 his name, I could " He stopped a moment, but 
 
 Oisille, fearful lest the men should fall to speaking 
 evil of women, declared their pastime had already 
 suffered too long an interruption. So Simontault 
 began : " They that are wont to live at Court or in fine 
 towns deem themselves so knowing that they think all 
 other men are as nothing compared with them ; but the 
 truth is that, in all sorts and conditions of men, there 
 are always to be found crafty and deceitful folk. But 
 because of their pride, who esteem themselves so shrewd, 
 the jest is much the better when they are deceived, as 
 I would fain show by this relation of a case that fell 
 out no long while ago."
 
 Day the Third. 2 1 5 
 
 NOVEL XXII. 
 A notable pasty ^ and what was found therein. 
 
 It fell out that when King Francis, first of the name, 
 was in the town of Paris, and with him his sister the 
 Queen of Navarre, that she had a secretary named 
 John, who was by no means in the number of those who 
 let a crumb fall to the ground without picking it up. 
 So greedy a fellow was he, that there was nor president, 
 nor counsellor, nor merchant, nor wealthy man that he 
 did not often visit. And about that time there came to 
 the said town of Paris a merchant of Bayonne, named 
 Bernard du Ha, as much for his business as for the 
 advice and help therein of the high sheriff, who was a 
 countryman of his. The Queen of Navarre's secretary 
 often went to see this officer, as one who was a good 
 servant to his master and mistress, and going there on 
 a saint's day he found neither the master nor his 
 wife, but very plainly heard Bernard du Ha, who with 
 some kind of a viol was teaching the servant-maids to 
 dance the Gascon fling. And when the secretary saw 
 him he would have him believe that he was committing 
 a great offence, and that if the mistress of the house 
 and her husband were advised of it they would take it 
 in very bad part. And after setting the fear of this well 
 before his eyes, the Gascon at last prayed him not to 
 speak of it. Whereupon the secretary asked him : 
 " What will you give me if I keep silence .'' " Bernard du 
 Ha, whose fear was by no means as great as his pre- 
 tence, for he perceived the other was minded to cozen 
 him, promised to give him a pasty of the best Basque 
 ham he had ever tasted. The secretary, well pleased at
 
 2 1 6 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 this, asked that he might have the pasty the following 
 Sunday, after dinner,^ which was promised him. And 
 trusting to this promise he went to see a lady of Paris, 
 Avhom above all things he desired to have to wife, and 
 said to her : " Fair mistress, if it be your pleasure I will 
 sup with you on Sunday, and have you no care save to 
 provide good bread and good wine, for I have so 
 deceived a blockhead from Bayonne that the remainder 
 of the feast will be at his charges, and by my deceit you 
 shall eat as fine a Basque ham as ever was in Paris." 
 The lady, believing him, called together two or three of 
 the neighbouring gentlewomen whom she loved, and 
 gave them assurance of tasting a dish altogether new to 
 them. 
 
 When the Sunday was come, the secretary, looking 
 for his merchant, at last found him on the Pont-au- 
 Change, and graciously accosting him, said : " Begone 
 a twenty devil way for the toil you have given me to 
 find }'ou." Bernard du Ha replied that many a man 
 had taken more pains than he, who at last had not such 
 a dainty dish for his reward. So saying he showed the 
 pasty, which he carried under his cloak, huge enough to 
 feed an army. So joyous thereat was the secretary 
 that, though his mouth was of a monstrous size, he made 
 it so small that one would not have thought he could 
 have chewed the ham with it. So forthwith taking it, 
 
 ^ Dinner was about ten o'clock in the morning, and answered to the 
 .second breakfast of contemporary France. Supper was served about five 
 in the afternoon ; and a light refection of spices, wine, cakes, and different 
 preserves, was taken in the evening before bedtime. 
 
 Margaret herself was great in the baking of pasties. We hear of her 
 at Fontainebleau in 1540 making and seasoning w.ith her ow'n hands cer- 
 tain wild-boar pasties to be sent to the King of England. Perhaps she 
 learned the art in Beam.
 
 Day the Third. 2 1 7 
 
 without bringing the merchant with him, he carried it to 
 the lady, who was mighty curious to know whether 
 the provender of Gascony equalled that of Paris. 
 And when soup had been brought in and they were 
 eating it, the secretary said to them : " Leave that 
 mawkish fare, and let us taste this lovely whet for wine." 
 So saying he opened the great pasty, and thinking to 
 find the ham, found it so hard that he could not set his 
 knife into it, and after striving to do this several times he 
 was advertised of the cozenage, and discovered his ham 
 to be a wooden shoe, such as they wear in Gascony, with 
 a firebrand for knuckle, and all powdered with iron-rust 
 and sweet-smelling spices. Who then was chapfallen 
 but master secretary, as much for that he was deceived 
 of him he thought to deceive, as that he had deceived 
 her to whom he wished most of all to speak the truth ; 
 and, beside all this, a supper of soup was by no means 
 to his liking. The ladies, well-nigh as angry as he, 
 would have accused him of the fact had they not been 
 well assured, by the manner of his countenance, that he 
 was more wroth than they. So after this light refection 
 the secretary went away in a great rage, and seeing that 
 Bernard du Ha had broken his promise, he was de- 
 termined to cry quits with him, and betook himself to 
 the sheriff's house, resolved to say the worst he could of 
 the aforesaid Bernard. But he came not there so soon 
 as the merchant, who had opened to his countryman the 
 whole matter, and he mocked the secretary, telling him 
 that he had cozened a Gascon to his cost, and this was 
 the only consolation he got from him. 
 
 " Such misadventures befall many who, thinking 
 themselves exceedingly crafty, are overmatched in craf- 
 tiness ; wherefore let us do unto others as we would
 
 2 1 8 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 they should do unto us." " I do assure you," said 
 Geburon, " that I have often known like cases have like 
 issues, and seen men esteemed simple country folk 
 deceive your brave city wit ; for there is no greater fool 
 than he that thinks himself wise, nor any wiser than he 
 who knows his nothingness." " Certainly," said Parla- 
 mente, " he something knows who knows he nothing 
 knows."^ " Now," said Simontault, "for fear lest time 
 be wanting to us to complete the tale, I give my vote to 
 Nomerfide, for sure am I that her tricks of rhetoric will 
 keep us no long time." " And I will give you," said 
 she, " that which you hope for of me. It is no matter of 
 wonderment to me, ladies, that love gives a prince 
 means to save himself from peril, for he has been 
 brought up among such a knowing sort of people that I 
 should be mightily astonished if he were found wanting 
 in such cases. But it is in lovers of dull wit that love 
 manifests its power of invention, and to that intent I 
 will relate to you a pretty matter done by a priest with 
 love alone to help him ; for of all else he was so ignorant 
 that he could scarce read his missal." 
 
 NOVEL XXIX. 
 A parson's ready wit. 
 
 In the county of Maine there lived at a village named 
 Carrelles a rich farmer, who in his old age had taken 
 to wife a pretty wench, and had of her no children. 
 And she, to console herself, was exceeding friendly 
 
 1 Parlamente, we must remember, like m.iny sixteenth century Prin- 
 cesses, was well-skilled in Greek and Latin, and the phrase of Socrates 
 falls lightly from her lips.
 
 Day the TJiird. 2 1 9 
 
 with many gentlemen, and when they failed her she 
 returned to her last resource, I would say the church, 
 and took for companion in her sin him who was able to 
 absolve her of it — that is, her spiritual shepherd, who 
 often came to visit his sheep. Her husband, old and 
 stupid, had no suspicion of her, but since he was a 
 harsh man and a sturdy, his wife played her mystery as 
 privily as might be, fearing lest, if he was advertised of 
 it, he would kill her. And on one day, when he was 
 gone out, his wife, thinking he would not soon return, 
 sent for master parson to come and confess her. And 
 her husband came suddenly ; so suddenly that the 
 parson had no time to retreat from the house ; but 
 looking whither he might hide himself, he climbed, by 
 the woman's advice, up into the granary, and covered 
 the trap-door with a winnowing fan. Thereupon the 
 husband came into the room, and fearing he might 
 have some suspicion, she made him eat and drink at 
 dinner in such wise that, being afore weary with his 
 toil in the fields, he fell asleep sitting in his chair 
 beside the hearth. The parson, thinking he had spent 
 enough time in the granary, came to the trap-door, and 
 stretching out his neck as much as he was able, per- 
 ceived the good man to be asleep. But while he was 
 looking at him he leant by mischance so weightily upon 
 the winnowing fan, that both fan and man came down 
 upon the sleeper, who at this awoke. And the parson 
 rising before the other had seen him, said : " Friend, 
 here is your fan, and many thanks for it." Thus saying 
 he fled home. The poor farmer, all astounded, asked 
 his wife : " What is this } " She replied : *' 'Tis but the 
 fan, sweetheart, the parson has borrowed, and now 
 returns to you." And he, grumbling mightily, said :
 
 220 The Fortunate Lovei's. 
 
 " 'Tis a very rude fashion of returning what one has 
 borrowed, for I thought the house was about my ears." 
 In this way did the parson save himself at the expense 
 of the good man, who found no fault at all in him save 
 the roughness he had used in returning him his winnow- 
 ing-fan. 
 
 " His master the devil was keeping him, ladies, to the 
 end that he might have him in his hands and torment 
 him for a longer while." "Think not," said Geburon, 
 " that simple folk and men of low estate are less crafty 
 than we ; nay, they are the much more cunning. For 
 prithee, consider thieves, murderers, sorcerers, utterers 
 of false coin, and all this sort of people, whose wit is 
 never at rest, they are all poor and apprenticed to some 
 mere mechanical craft." " It is no matter of surprise 
 to me," said Parlamente, " that they excel us in craft, 
 but that love should torment them amid their manifold 
 labours, and that so gentle a passion can hold assize in 
 a churlish heart." "Mistress," said Saffredent, "you 
 know the words of Master Jehan de Mehun : 
 
 " Love doth no less 
 Dwell in such folk as have a homespun dress 
 Then where are silk and plush for comeliness." 
 
 And as to the love in the tale it is not of a sort to make 
 one carry harness ; for since the poorer sort of people 
 have not our riches or honours, they have in place the 
 natural things more to their pleasure than we. Their 
 meats are not so dainty, but their appetite is keener, 
 and they live better on coarse bread than we on 
 pheasant. Not so brave and fine their beds as ours, 
 but their sleep is sweeter and their rest more calm. 
 No ladies have they prinked and painted like the 
 goddesses of our idolatry, but they enjoy their pleasures
 
 Day the Thb'd. 221 
 
 more often than we without fear of tell-tale tongues, 
 save it be of the beasts and birds that see them. In 
 what we have, they are wanting ; and where we have 
 not they have abundance." " Prithee," said Nomerfide, 
 " have done with this peasant and his wife, and let us 
 finish our day before the bells are ringing unto even- 
 song." . , . And so they fell to talking of the frailty of 
 man. " Methinks,'' said Oisille, " that every man and 
 woman ought to be humble in the fear of God." " Be 
 persuaded," said Parlamente, " that the first step taken 
 by a man trusting in himself is also the first step from 
 God." " But," said Hircan, " do you not see that while 
 we were telling our stories the monks behind the hedge 
 did not hear the bell for evensong, and when we began 
 to talk about God they vanished, and are even now 
 ringing the second bell." " We shall do well in follow- 
 ing them," said Oisille, " and in praising God for that 
 we have so joyously passed this day, even to admira- 
 tion." So saying, they arose and went to the church, 
 where they heard evensong with due devotion. And 
 afterwards they fell to supper, discoursing on the 
 matters that were overpast, and calling to mind many 
 another case, so as to see which were the most worthy 
 of relation. And when the evening had been gaily 
 spent they betook themselves to sweet rest, hoping on 
 the morrow to continue this undertaking, that was so 
 much to their contentment. And so the third day 
 came to an end.
 
 DAY THE FOURTH. 
 
 ON THE FOURTH DAY RELATION IS MADE FOR THE MOST PART 
 OF THE VIRTUOUS PATIENCE AND LONG-SUFFERING OF 
 WOMEN TO WIN THEIR HUSBANDS ; AND OK THE PRUDENCE 
 USED OF MEN TOWARDS THEIR WIVES FOR THE PRESERVING 
 OF THE HONOUR OF THEIR HOUSES AND LINEAGE. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 OlSILLE, according to her good custom, rose on the 
 morrow a long while before the rest, and meditating on 
 the Holy Scripture, awaited the company, who one by 
 one assembled together. And the slug-a-beds excused 
 themselves so long that Hircan and his wife found the 
 lesson well begun. But Oisille had the wit to search out 
 that place of Scripture reproving them that are negligent 
 to hear the word, and not only read it but made such 
 a goodly and fructifying discourse thereon, that it was 
 impossible to weary at the listening to it. The lesson 
 ended, Parlamente said to her : " I was sorry, when I 
 came, to have been so lazy, but since my fault has been 
 the occasion of your speaking to me to such good purpose, 
 my laziness hath profited me double, for I have both given 
 rest to my body and keenness to my mind, the better to 
 hear your godly conversation." "Then for penance," 
 said Oisille, " let us go to mass and pray Our Lord to 
 give us the will and the means to keep His law ; and then 
 let Him command us according to His pleasure." As 
 they said these words they came into the church and
 
 Day the Foui'th. 223 
 
 heard mass with due devotion ; and afterwards, when 
 they were at table, Hircan did not forget to laugh at 
 his wife and her laziness. When dinner was finished 
 they went to rest and to study their parts, and at the 
 appointed hour they found themselves at the accustomed 
 place. "To whom," said Oisille, "do you give your 
 vote } " " Unto you," said Geburon, " who will not fail 
 to tell us some good story." " Since it has come to my 
 turn," said Oisille, " I will tell you a thing that fell out 
 in my time, and under the eyes of him that told it me. 
 I am assured you know that death puts a close to our 
 misfortunes, but since it does this let us rather call it 
 our happiness and our rest. The chief misfortune then 
 that can befall a man is to desire death and not to have 
 it ; wherefore the greatest punishment one can give to 
 an evil-doer is not death but perpetual torment, thus 
 great that it makes him long for death, and thus small 
 that it brings death no nearer. And in this sort did a 
 gentleman use his wife, as you shall hear." 
 
 NOVEL XXXII. 
 
 T/ic notable manner in ivldch a gentleman punished /lis wi/e whom 
 he had taken in adultery. 
 
 King Charles, the Eighth of his name, sent into 
 Germany a gentleman named Bernage,i lord of Sivray, 
 
 ^ " In the Hundred Novels of the Queen of Navarre," wrote Brantume 
 in his " Dames Galantes," "you will find the saddest and most beautiful 
 story that you can imagine on this subject. . . . I speak of the adventure 
 of that fair lady of Germany whom her husband constrained to drink eveiy 
 day out of the skull of her dead lover, slain at his hands. And this 
 piteous spectacle was actually witnessed by my Lord Bernage, who at that 
 time was the ambassador of King Charles VIIL" Bernage or Vernaiges 
 was instituted Master of the Horse to Charles VIII. in the year 1495.
 
 2 24 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 near Amboise, who to make good speed spared not to 
 journey by day nor night, and so one evening came 
 very late to a house and asked there for lodging. At 
 this great difficulty was made, but when the master 
 understood how great a king he served, he entreated 
 him not to take in bad part the churlishness of his 
 servants, since, by reason of certain kinsfolk of his wife, 
 who were fain to do him a hurt, it was necessary that 
 the house should be under strict ward. Then the afore- 
 said Bernage told him the reason of his embassage, 
 which the gentleman offered to forward with all his 
 might, and led him into his house, where he honourably 
 lodged and entertained him. 
 
 It was now supper-time, and the gentleman brought 
 him into a large room, bravely hung with tapestry 
 work. And as the meats were set upon the table there 
 came a woman from behind the tapestry, of a most 
 surpassing beauty, but her head was shorn and the rest 
 of her body was clothed in black gear of the German 
 fashion. After that the gentleman had washed his 
 hands with Bernage, water was borne to the lady, who 
 when she had washed her hands sat herself down at the 
 bottom of the table, without a word from her or to her. 
 My lord de Bernage looked at her very attentively, and 
 she seemed one of the comeliest women he ever had 
 beheld, save that the manner of her countenance was 
 pale and melancholic. And when she had eaten a 
 little she asked for drink, and this was brought her by 
 a servant in a most marvellous vessel, I would say a 
 death's-head with the eyes closed up with silver,^ and so 
 
 ^ This unholy drinking-cup will recall to the memory of the reader the 
 fantasy of a more famous German, Alboin, King of the Lombards, who 
 constrained his wife to drink his heahh out of a goblet made from her 
 father's skull.
 
 Day the Fourth. 225 
 
 from this she drank three or ibur times. And her 
 supper having come to an end she washed her hands, 
 and with a reverence to the lord of the house she 
 returned behind the tapestry without a word to anyone. 
 Bernage was so astonished to see so strange a case that 
 he fell into a thoughtful melancholy, which being per- 
 ceived of the gentleman, he said to him : " I know well 
 that you marvel within yourself at what you have see^i 
 done at this table ; and for that I judge you to be an 
 honourable man, I will not conceal the affair from you, 
 to the intent that you may not think there is so great 
 cruelty in me without a weighty cause. The lady you 
 have seen is my wife, whom I loved as man never loved 
 before, so much indeed that to wed her I forgot all 
 fear and brought her here by force against the will of 
 her kinsfolk. And she in like manner gave me so 
 many evident proofs of her love that I would have 
 risked ten thousand lives to bring her here as I did, to 
 the delight of the pair of us, and we lived awhile in 
 such quietness and contentment that I esteemed myself 
 the most fortunate gentleman in all Christendom. But 
 while I was away on a journey made for the sake of my 
 honour, she so far forgot her virtue, her conscience, and 
 the love she had for me, that she fell in love with a 
 young gentleman whom I had brought up in my house, 
 and this I perceived upon my coming home. Yet I 
 loved her so well that I was not able to distrust her till 
 with my own eyes I saw what I feared more than death. 
 Then was my love turned to madness and my trust to 
 despair ; and so well did I play the spy upon her that 
 one day, feigning to go out, I hid myself in the room 
 which is now her dwelling-place. And very soon after 
 she saw me go, she went away and made the young 
 
 P
 
 2 26 The Forhmate Lovers. 
 
 man come to her, and fondled him in such a fashion as 
 belonged to me alone. Then did I come forth from 
 my hiding-place, and, taking him between her very- 
 arms, there I put him to death. And since the offence 
 of my wife seemed to me so great that death would not 
 sufifice for her punishment, I appointed one that I deem 
 is much more bitter than death to her : namely, to shut 
 her up in the room where she had her greatest pleasures 
 of him she loved more than me ; and there I have set 
 all the bones of her lover in an aumbry, as a precious 
 thing and worthy of safe keeping. And to the end 
 that in eating and drinking she may not lose the 
 memory of him, I have made her be served at table 
 from the head of that villain in place of a cup, and this 
 in my presence ; so that she may see him alive whom 
 she has made through her sin a mortal enemy ; and, 
 dead for love of her, she may behold the man she pre- 
 ferred before me. Thus at dinner and supper she gazes 
 on the two things which most should make her to 
 despair ; the living enemy and the dead lover ; and all 
 through her own sin. For the rest, I treat her as my- 
 self, save that she goes shorn, for an array of hair doth 
 not belong to a woman taken in adultery, nor the veil to 
 an harlot. Wherefore her hair is cut, showing that she 
 has lost the honour of virginity and purity. And if it 
 be your pleasure to see her, I will take you there." 
 
 To this Bernage willingly agreed ; and they went down 
 the stair and found her in a fine room, sitting alone before 
 a fire. Then the gentleman drew a curtain that was 
 before a high aumbry, and in it were hanging all the 
 bones of the dead man. Bernage had a great desire 
 to speak with the lady, but for fear of the husband 
 durst not do it. He perceiving this, said to him : " An
 
 Day the J^oiirth. 227 
 
 it please you to say anything to her, you shall see how 
 admirably she talks." Forthwith Bernage said : " Mis- 
 tress, your long-suffering and your torment are alike 
 great. I hold you for the most wretched of all 
 women." The lady, with tears in her eyes, graciously 
 yet most humbly answered him : " Sir, I confess my 
 sin to be so great that all the ills the lord of this 
 place (for I am not worthy that I should call him hus- 
 band) can bestow upon me, are as nothing compared 
 with my sorrow that I have done him a displeasure." So 
 saying she fell to weeping bitterly ; and the gentleman 
 took Bernage by the arm and led him away. And very 
 early on the morrow he went on to execute the charge 
 given him of the King. But, in bidding the gentleman 
 farewell, he could not refrain from saying to him : *' Sir, 
 the love I bear you, and the honour and privity you have 
 used towards me in this your house, constrain me to 
 tell you that, in my opinion, seeing the repentance of 
 your poor wife, you should have compassion on her. 
 Furthermore, you being still young have no children, 
 and it would be a great pity that such a brave line as 
 yours should come to an end, and they for whom, per- 
 chance, you have no great love, should be your heirs." 
 The gentleman, who had resolved never again to speak 
 to his wife, thought for a long while on what my lord 
 de Bernage had said to him, and finding him to be in 
 the right, promised that if she continued in her humble 
 repentance he would one day have compassion on her. 
 And so Bernage went forth on his embassage. And 
 when he was returned to the King his master, he told 
 him the whole matter, which the prince, having made 
 inquiry, found to be as he had said. And among other 
 things, Bernage having spoken of the lady's beauty, the
 
 2 28 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 King sent his painter, John of Paris/ thither, that he 
 might draw her to the Hfe. This he did, and with the 
 consent thereto of her husband, who, beholding her long 
 repentance, and having a great desire for children, took 
 pity on his wife, who with such humbleness had borne 
 her punishment, and, taking her back to him, had of her 
 many brave children. 
 
 " If all, ladies, in like case, drank out of like vessels, 
 I am afraid that many a golden cup would be turned 
 into a death's-head. God preserve us from the like, for 
 if His goodness do not keep us, there is not one of us 
 that may not fare worse. But having confidence in 
 Him, He will have a care to them that confess they are 
 not able to have a care to themselves ; and they that 
 trust in their own strength stand in jeopardy of being so 
 tempted as to be constrained to confess their frailty. 
 The high-minded I have often seen to stumble and to 
 fall, whilst they that were of less reputation went safe 
 and sound. To this intent is the old saw : What God 
 keeps is wellkeptr " Her punishment," said Parlamente, 
 " I deem mighty reasonable, for, when the crime is 
 worse than death, so also should be the punishment." 
 But Ennasuitte said : " I am by no means of your 
 opinion, for I would rather look upon the bones of my 
 
 1 John of Paris — ^Jean Perr6al, known as John of Paris — was a painter, 
 who came into fashion in the Court at Lyons about the year 1490. He 
 was in favour under Charles VIII., and still more honoured by Louis 
 XII. — a far more cultured and artistic personage than the amiable young 
 barbarian he succeeded. One of the first acts of Louis XII. was to 
 make Jean Perreal Painter to the King ; one of his last acts, sixteen 
 years later, was to send Jean Perreal to England to fetch the beautiful 
 sister of Henry VIII. to France. Three months later Jean Perreal had 
 the melancholy honour of arranging the funeral of his constant patron. 
 Under Francis I. he lived in plenty and renown. His portraits were 
 especially esteemed.
 
 Day the Fourth. 229 
 
 lover all the days of my life than die for his sake, since 
 there is nothing ill-done that cannot be amended, but 
 when one is ended one cannot be amended." " How 
 then would you mend shame ? " said Longarine, " for 
 you know that when a woman has done a deed of this 
 kind her honour can by no means be repaired, do she 
 what she may." " Prithee, then," answered Ennasuitte, 
 " tell me whether the Magdalen has not now more 
 honour among men than her sister, who was a maid." 
 " I confess," said Longarine, " that she is praised of us 
 for the great love she bore to Jesus Christ, and for her 
 repentance; yet the name of Sinner abides with her 
 always." " I care not," said Ennasuitte, " how men call 
 me, for if I be forgiven of God, and likewise of my hus- 
 band, there is nothing for which I am fain to die." " If 
 this dame loved her husband as she ought," said 
 Dagoucin, " I marvel how it was she did not die of 
 grief as she looked upon the bones of him whom, by her 
 sin, she had sent to death." " What ! Dagoucin," said 
 Simontault," " have you yet to learn that in women 
 dwells neither love nor regret .'' " " I have yet to learn 
 it," answered Dagoucin, " for I have never yet made 
 trial of their love, lest haply I find it less than I desire." 
 " You live then on faith and hope," said Nomerfide, '• as 
 the plover does on wind .-* Truly you are easy to be 
 fed." " I hold myself content," said he, " with the love 
 that I know is in me, and with the hope that it is in my 
 lady's heart likewise. But if I was assured that as I 
 hope so it is, I should be in such delight that I could 
 
 not bear it and live." 
 
 ****** 
 
 •' And yet," said Nomerfide, " although you are thus 
 in love with silence and reserve, there is nothing more
 
 230 The Foi'tunate Lovers. 
 
 pleasant than to speak out the thoughts of one's heart." 
 " It causes merriment," answered Longarine, " so I 
 suppose you give your opinion from your own habit." 
 *' I tell you," said Nomerfide, " that I see fools, unless 
 they die violently, live longer than the wise and prudent, 
 and there can be but one reason, that they do not hide 
 their passion. If they be wrathful they deal out blows, 
 and if they be merry they laugh ; but they that deem 
 themselves to be wise so conceal their imperfections 
 that their hearts are all corrupted thereby." " Me- 
 thinks," said G-eburon, "you say well, and that hypocrisy, 
 be it towards God, men, or Nature, is the cause of all 
 evil." " This would be a brave thing," said Parlamente, 
 " if our hearts were so fulfilled of Him who is all 
 virtuousness and all gladness, that we could freely show 
 them to the whole world." " That will be on the day 
 when there is no longer any flesh on our bones," said 
 Ilircan. "Yet," said Oisille, "the Spirit of God, who 
 is stronger than death, can so mortify our heart within 
 us, without change or decay of the body." " Mistress," 
 said Saffredent, " you speak of a gift of God, scarcely 
 partaken of by men." " 'Tis partaken of," said she, 
 " by them that have faith, but since it skills not to speak 
 on this matter, let us know to whom Simontault gives 
 his vote." " I give it," said he, " to Nomerfide, for as 
 her heart is glad, her words will not be sad." " Truly," 
 said Nomerfide, "since you desire to laugh I will take 
 the occasion. And that you may know how hurtful are 
 fear and ignorance, and that not to understand a word 
 is often a cause of evil, I will tell you of a case that 
 befel two Grey Friars at Niort, who, through not under- 
 standing the words of a butcher, were in fear of death."
 
 Day the Fourth. 231 
 
 NOVEL XXXIV. 
 
 A very merry case of two Grey Friars who lodged in the house of 
 
 a butcher. 
 
 There is a village betwixt Niort and Fors named 
 Grip, the which appertains to the Manor of Fors. And 
 it fell out that one day two Grey Friars, journeying 
 from Niort, came very late to this place Grip, and 
 lodged in the house of a butcher. And since between 
 their room and that of their host there were but boards 
 badly joined, they became desirous of hearing the dis- 
 course of the husband and wife in bed together, setting 
 their ears to the boards that were nearest to the bed. 
 And the husband having no suspicion of his guests, 
 talked with his wife upon the private concerns of their 
 household. " Sweetheart," said he, " I must needs rise 
 early on the morrow that I may go see our Grey Friars, 
 for one of them is a mighty fat fellow. Him we will 
 kill, and if we salt him forthwith he will greatly profit 
 us." And though his discourse was on his pigs, which 
 he called Gi'ey Friars, yet the two poor brethren, who 
 heard this awful doom, were well persuaded that it was 
 for them, and in fear and trembling waited the dawn of 
 day. Now the one of them was exceeding fat, and the 
 other somewhat lean. And the fat friar was fain to 
 make his confession to his fellow, for, as he said, the 
 rogue butcher, having ceased to walk in the fear and 
 love of God, would make no more ado of slaughtering 
 them than an ox or any other animal. And seeing 
 that they were shut up in their room, and were not able 
 to get out unless they passed through that of their host, 
 they should hold themselves as dead men, and com-
 
 232 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 mend their souls to God. But the young friar, who 
 Avas not so overcome with fear as was his fellow, said 
 that since the door was shut on them, they must essay 
 a passage through the window, and at the worst they 
 could meet with nothing more grievous than death. To 
 this the fat friar agreed. The young one opened the 
 window, and seeing that it was not too far from the 
 ground, leapt down and fled away without so much as 
 waiting for his companion. And he likewise essayed 
 this hazardous jump, but in place of leaping fell so 
 heavily, by reason of his weight, that he was sorely 
 hurt in one of his legs and could not stir from the 
 ground. 
 
 And seeing himself to be abandoned by his fellow, 
 and not able to follow him, he looked all around for a 
 hiding place, and saw nothing better than the pigsty, 
 whither he crawled as well as might be. And as he 
 opened the door to hide himself within, out rushed two 
 monstrous pigs, in whose place the poor friar bestowed 
 himself, hoping that, when he heard the noise of folk 
 passing by, he could call out and be succoured. But so 
 soon as the morning was come the butcher made ready 
 his mightiest knives, and would have his wife bear him 
 company while he went to kill his fat pig. And when 
 he came to the sty, where the friar had hidden himself, 
 he began to bellow at the top of his voice as he opened 
 the little door : " Come out ! come out ! master Grey 
 Friar, for it is my fixed intent this very day to taste 
 your chitterlings ! " The poor friar, not being able to 
 stand on his legs, crawled out of the sty on his hands 
 and knees, crying as loud as he was able for mercy. 
 But if the friar was in great terror, the butcher and his 
 wife were in no less, for they thought that St Francis
 
 Day the Fourth. 233 
 
 was wrathful with them because they called a beast a 
 Grey Friar, and so fell on their knees before the poor 
 man, asking forgiveness of St Francis and all his whole 
 order. So on one side was the friar imploring mercy 
 of the butcher, and on the other the butcher craving 
 forgiveness of the friar, in such sort that it was a full 
 quarter of an hour before they were assured of one 
 another. At last the good father, understanding the 
 butcher wished him no harm, declared wherefore he had 
 hidden himself in the sty, at which their fear was 
 forthwith converted to laughter, save for the poor Grey 
 Friar, whose leg was too sore to let him make merry. 
 But the butcher took him into his house and entreated 
 him mighty well. As to his fellow, who had left him 
 in his necessity, he had run all night, and about the 
 hour of prime came to the manor-house of the lord of 
 Fors. Here he made complaint of the butcher, whom 
 he suspected had killed his companion, since he had 
 not followed after him. The lord of Fors sent forth- 
 with to Grip to know the truth of the matter, which 
 being found out was by no means judged an occasion 
 for weeping. And the lord of Fors told it to his 
 mistress, the Duchess of Angouleme, mother of King 
 Francis I. 
 
 "So, ladies, 'tis not a good thing to listen to other 
 folk's secrets, lest haply one hear ill of oneself." "Did 
 I not know," said Simontault, " that Nomerfide would 
 give us no reason to weep, but rather to laugh } And 
 this I think we all of us have done to admiration." 
 "And what is the cause of it," said Oisille, " that we are 
 always more inclined to laugh at idle folly than true 
 wit.-*" "For that," said Hircan, "it is more pleasant 
 and more like our own nature, which of itself is never
 
 234 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 wise ; and like always is attached to like — fools to folly, 
 and wise men to wit. Yet I am persuaded that any, be 
 he fool or wise man, could not refrain from laughing at 
 this tale." " There are men," said Geburon, " whose 
 heart is so possessed by a love of wisdom, that for all 
 the tales they may hear they will never laugh ; for they 
 have a gladness of the soul and a well-moderated con- 
 tentment that nothing can move." " What folk are 
 these.?" said Hircan. "The philosophers of old days," 
 said Geburon, " by whom nor joy nor sorrow were at all 
 experienced, or, at the least, they showed them not ; so 
 great glory did they think it to conquer themselves and 
 their passions. And I esteem it a good thing to do as 
 they did, and conquer a vicious passion, but as to a 
 natural desire leading to no evil, this seems a profitless 
 victory. But yet they esteemed it a great virtue." " It 
 is not said," answered Safifredent, " that they were all 
 wise men ; and haply there was more appearance of 
 sense and virtue in them than reality." " Natheless," 
 said Geburon, " you will see that they rebuked all evil ; 
 and Diogenes himself trod on the bed of Plato, it being 
 too rare and curious for his liking, to show that he de- 
 spised and would fain put under his feet Plato his vain- 
 glory and covetousness. ' I trample upon and despise,' 
 said he, ' the pride of Plato.' " " But you tell not the 
 whole," said Safifredent, " for Plato answered that his 
 trampling was but pride of another kind." " In truth," 
 said Parlamente, " 'tis not possible that this conquest 
 over ourselves can be accomplished by ourselves, save 
 Avith a monstrous pride especially to be avoided, since 
 it engenders the death and destruction of all the other 
 virtues." " Did I not read to you this morning," said 
 Oisille, " how that they who trusted themselves to be
 
 Day the Fourth. 235 
 
 more wise than other men, and who by the light of 
 reason came to know a God, a creator of all things, yet 
 fixing this glory on themselves, and not on Him whence 
 it came, thinking by their own toil they had come to 
 this knowledge, were made not only more ignorant and 
 void of reason than other men, but even than fourfooted 
 beasts ? For since they had erred in their minds, 
 attributing to themselves that is God's alone, they 
 showed their errors by bodily disorders, forgetting and 
 perverting their sex as St Paul to-day declared to us 
 in the Epistle to the Romans." " There is not one of 
 us," said Parlamente, " that will not confess that sin is 
 the fruit of inward evil ; which the more it is concealed 
 by an outward show of virtue, the more it is hard to be 
 plucked out." " We men," said Hircan, " are nearer 
 to salvation than you ; for since we conceal not our 
 fruits the tree is easily known ; but you who dare not 
 show the fruits, and do such brave outward works, are 
 hardly able to discover that great tree of pride, which, 
 well concealed, grows fast." " I confess," replied Lon- 
 garine, " that if the word of God doth not show us by 
 faith the leprosy of infidelity that is hidden in our 
 hearts, God does us good service when we fall into 
 some open sin, by the which the secret plague becomes 
 clearly manifest. And happy are they whom faith has 
 so humbled that they have no need of making trial of 
 their sinful nature by its outward effects." " But con- 
 sider," said Simontault, " how we are going on, for 
 setting out from a most foolish tale we are now deep 
 in theology and philosophy. Let us leave these matters 
 to them that are more fit for such musings, and ask to 
 whom Nomerfide gives her vote." ..." Give it," said 
 Longarine, " to Safi'redent." " I hope then," said Safif-
 
 236 The Foi'huiate Lovers. 
 
 redent, " to make plain my example that God shows no 
 favour unto lovers. And although it has been said that 
 vice is common to men and women, yet a crafty device 
 shall be found more quickly and after a more subtile 
 fashion by a woman than by a man. And this I tell 
 you for an example of it." 
 
 NOVEL XXXIX. 
 In what tnanner my lord of Grignaulx exorcised an evil spirit. 
 
 A certain lord of Grignaulx,^ Esquire of the Body to 
 Aime Duchess of Brittany and Queen of France, return- 
 ing to his house, from which he had been absent more 
 than two years, found his wife at another demesne hard- 
 by. And when he would know the reason of this, she 
 told him there was a ghost in their own house that tor- 
 mented them so much that none could live in it. My 
 lord de Grignaulx, who put no belief in such fantasies, 
 told her that he feared it not, were it the very devil, and 
 so brought his wife to the house. And at night-time he 
 
 ^ Jean de Talleyrand, Seigneur de Grignols, married Marguerite de la 
 Tour de Turenne. He was a man of a certain caustic, irreverent, and 
 cynical humour. It was he who, when the severe and dignified Queen 
 Anne wished to say some words of personal welcome to the Spanish Am- 
 bassadors, taught her " quelque petite salauderie," so out of place upon 
 those correct and orthodox lips that her husband, Louis XIL, shaking with 
 laughter, beseeched her never to speak in Spanish again. It was all very 
 well for King Louis to laugh ; he was fond of laughter, and not fond at 
 all of Spain. But Queen Anne was a pure, reticent, and honest woman ; 
 she was hurt in her personal dignity, and she was hurt also as a Sovereign. 
 She wished above all things to cement the projected Franco-Austrian- 
 Spanish alliance, and to marry her daughter Claude to Charles V. It 
 was thus a double vexation to her to appear ridiculous, and perhaps in- 
 sulting, to the ambassador of Spain. She was deeply angry with Grignols, 
 and the most earnest entreaties of her husband were needed to induce 
 her to forgive him in the end.
 
 Day the Fourth. 237 
 
 lighted many candles to see the ghost more clearly, and. 
 
 after watching a long while to no purpose, fell asleep 
 
 But on a sudden he was wakened by a mighty buffet on 
 
 the cheek, and he heard a voice crying aloud : Brcnigne, 
 
 Brenigiie, and this was the name of his grandmother. 
 
 Then he called his wife who lay beside him to light 
 
 a candle, for they were all put out, but she durst not 
 
 rise from the bed. Straightway he felt the quilt pulled 
 
 from off him, and heard a great noise of tables, trestles, 
 
 dan stools falling all about the room ; and it ceased 
 
 not all through the night. And he was more troubled 
 
 in that he had lost his rest than for fear of the ghost, 
 
 for he by no means believed it to have been such, 
 
 and the next niq-ht he determined to take Master Gob- 
 
 lin a prisoner. So a little after he was come to bed he 
 
 made a great pretence of snoring loudly, and put his 
 
 hand open near his face. And while he waited he knew 
 
 that something was approaching him, and so snored all 
 
 the more. At this the ghost, taking heart, gave him a 
 
 mighty buffet, whereupon my lord de Grignaulx took 
 
 his hand from his face and seized it, crying to his wife : 
 
 " I have the ghost." And she rose and lighted a candle, 
 
 and they found it was the maid that slept in their 
 
 room, who falling on her knees entreated forgiveness, 
 
 and promised to tell the truth. And this was that she 
 
 had for a long while loved a serving man of the house, 
 
 and so had undertaken this brave mystery, thereby to 
 
 drive from the house the master and mistress, so that 
 
 they, who would have had all the care of it, should have 
 
 means of entertaining one another, which indeed when 
 
 they were all alone they by no means failed to do. My 
 
 lord de Grignaulx, who was a somewhat surly man, 
 
 commanded that they should be beaten in such sort
 
 2 "^8 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 that they would never forget the ghost, and this having 
 been done, they were driven away. And thus was the 
 house freed from the ghostly torments that had plagued 
 it throughout two whole years. 
 
 " 'Tis a wondrous thing, ladies, to think what this 
 mighty god of love can do. From women it takes 
 away all fear, and makes them to torment men so that 
 they may gain their desire. But in like measure, as the 
 serving-maid is to be blamed, so is the master to be 
 praised for his good sense, that knew the spirit returneth 
 not from the place whither it has gone." " Of a truth," 
 said Geburon, " Love showed small favour to the maid 
 and the man, and I confess their master's good sense 
 stood him in good stead." " Yet," said Ennasuitte, 
 " the wench, by reason of her craftiness, lived a long 
 while at her ease." " 'Tis a pitiful kind of ease," said 
 Oisille, " built upon sin, and ending in punishment and 
 shame." " That is true," answered Ennasuitte, " but 
 many folk have sorrow and suffering while they live 
 righteously, not having the wit all their days to take 
 their portion of pleasure as did these two." " Yet I 
 am steadfast in my opinion," said Oisille, " that no 
 pleasure can be perfect, save the conscience is at rest." 
 " Are you advised of this .'' " said Simontault ; " the 
 Italian author would maintain that the greater the sin 
 the greater the pleasure." " Of a truth," said Oisille, 
 " he that said so is himself the very devil. Wherefore 
 enough of him, and let us know to whom Safifredent 
 will give his vote." "To whom.''" said he. "None 
 but Parlamente remains, but if there were a hundred I 
 would still give my vote to her, since thereby we shall 
 learn something." " Since, then, I am to bring the day 
 to an end," said Parlamente, " and since I promised
 
 Day the Fourth. 239 
 
 yesterday to tell you for what reason the father of 
 Rolandine made build the castle where he kept her so 
 long captive, I will even do so." 
 
 NOVEL XL. 
 
 Wherein is given the cause ivherefoi-e Rolandine's father inade 
 build the castle in the forest. 
 
 The father of Rolandine, who was entitled the Count 
 of Jossebelin,^ had several sisters, of whom some were 
 married to exceeding rich men, and the rest were nuns, 
 save one who lived in his house unmarried, though be- 
 yond compare she was prettier than all the others. 
 And so well was she beloved of her brother that he 
 preferred before her neither wife nor children. And 
 she was asked in marriage by many of good estate; but 
 her brother, for fear of the separation, and loving too 
 well his money, would not listen to them. So she 
 passed some time without being wed, living virtuously 
 in her brother's house. Now there lived there also a 
 
 ^ Jean de ]\ohan, Viscointe de Rohan, Comte de Porhoet, Comte de 
 Leon, Comte de ]a Garnache, counted among his vast possessions the 
 town of Josselin, from which, with very slight disguise, he takes his title 
 here. Josselin is also a name familiar in the history of the Rohans. Jean 
 de Rohan was the son of Alain IX. de Rohan, and his half-sister married 
 John, Count of Angouleme, the grandfather of Margaret. Rolandine was 
 therefore her cousin, a la mode de Bretagne, and this accounts for the fact 
 that Parlamente tells both the stories concerning her. Jean de Rohan 
 had several half-sisters, all nuns or married, as the novel relates. By his 
 own mother, Marie de Lorraine, he had only one sister, Catherine de 
 Rohan, who died unmarried. She, of course, is the heroine of this 
 adventure. Jean IL de Rohan was actually in prison several years for the 
 murder of a certain Rene Comte de K(5radreux, and this crime is doubtless 
 the occasion of our story. He was present at the marriage of Francis of 
 Angouleme in 1507. He died in 1510.
 
 240 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 young and comely gentleman, who having been brought 
 up by the Count from his childhood, so grew in comely 
 stature and virtuousness of living, that he bore a peace- 
 ful rule over his master, in such sort that when he had 
 any charges for his sister, it was ever the young gentle- 
 man that gave them. And with such familiarity did 
 the Count use him, that evening and morning would he 
 send him to his sister, so that by this frequent converse 
 together a great love was engendered between them. 
 But since he feared for his life if he should haply offend 
 his master, and she had no less fear for her honour, they 
 had in this love of theirs none other contentment save 
 words only. And the lord of Jossebelin would often 
 say to his sister that he wished the gentleman was 
 richer, and of as good a house as she, for he knew no 
 man he would have liked better for his brother-in-law. 
 So many times did he say this, that the lovers, having 
 taken counsel together, judged that if they were to wed 
 he would readily pardon them. And Love, that easily 
 believes what it wishes, made them to suppose that no- 
 thing but good could come of it ; and so on this hope 
 their marriage was solemnised and consummated, and 
 none knew thereof but a priest and certain women. 
 
 And after that they had lived for some years in the 
 delight that a married pair can have together, as one of 
 the bravest in all Christendom, and bound by the 
 greatest and most perfect love, Fortune, that hated to 
 see two persons so much at their ease, stirred up an 
 enemy against them, who spying out the lady, perceived 
 her great happiness in her husband, but yet knew not 
 that they were married. And this man came to the 
 lord of Jossebelin, saying that the gentleman in whom 
 he had so great trust went too much into his sister's
 
 Day the Fourth. 241 
 
 room, and at hours in the night when it was not meet 
 for men to enter therein. And this the count at the 
 first would not believe, for the trust he had in his sister 
 and the gentleman ; but the enemy, as one who loved 
 the honour of his house, so many times repeated it, that 
 at last a watch was put, and so shrewd a one that the 
 poor folk, suspecting nothing, were surprised. For one 
 evening the Lord of Jossebelin was advertised that the 
 gentleman was in his sister's room, and presently going 
 thither he found them, blinded by their love, in bed 
 together. Wrath took away speech, and drawing his 
 sword he ran at the gentleman. But he, being agile in 
 body, fled from him in his shirt, and not able to escape 
 by the door let himself down by a window into the 
 garden. The poor lady threw herself on her knees 
 before her brother, and said to him : " O sir, save my 
 husband's life, for indeed I have wed him, and if there 
 be any fault, punish me alone, for he married me at my 
 desire." Her brother, beside himself with wrath, only 
 replied to her : " If he be a hundred times your husband, 
 yet will I punish him as a wicked servant who hath 
 deceived me." So saying he set himself at the window 
 and cried with a loud voice to kill him, and so it was 
 done straightway by his command and before the eyes 
 of him and his sister. But she, beholding his piteous 
 sight, and knowing that prayers were of no avail, spoke 
 to her brother as a mad woman, saying : " Brother, I 
 have nor father nor mother, and am come to an age at 
 which I can marry according to my pleasure, and so 
 chose one whom oftentimes you have said you were 
 fain had been my husband. And for that I did by your 
 counsel a thing I could by the law have done without 
 your consent, you have bid your servants kill the man 
 
 Q
 
 242 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 for whom you had a great liking. And since no prayers 
 of mine could prevent his death, I entreat you by all 
 your love towards me to make me in this hour a fellow 
 with him in death, as I have been in all his other 
 chances. And so you will both satisfy your cruel and 
 unjust anger, and give rest to the body and soul of her 
 who nor can nor will live without him." Her brother, 
 though he was in such a rage as almost took away his 
 reason, yet had such pity on his sister that, without 
 granting or refusing her prayer, he left her. And after 
 that he had well considered the deed he had done, and 
 understood that the gentleman had married his sister, 
 he would have been heartily glad not to have committed 
 such a crime. But for the fear he had lest his sister 
 should demand vengeance and justice on him, he had 
 built for her a castle in the midst of a forest, whither he 
 placed her, and forbade any to speak with her. 
 
 And after some time, to satisfy his conscience, he 
 essayed to win her back to him, and made some talk 
 about marriage ; but she sent word to him that he had 
 given her so ill a breakfast that she wished not to sup 
 off the same meat, and that she had a good hope to 
 live in such wise that he would have no second husband 
 of hers to put to death, and that she hardly thought he 
 would forgive another, since he had used so evilly the 
 man for whom he had such a liking. And though she 
 was weak, and had not the power to avenge herself on 
 him, yet she trusted in Him who is the true judge and 
 suffers no evil deed to go unpunished. And with His 
 love alone she intended to pass the remainder of her 
 days in her retreat. This she did, and stirred not from 
 the place till her death, living in such patience and 
 austerity that men came from all parts to her sepulchre
 
 Day the Fourth. 243 
 
 as to that of a saint. And from the time she died her 
 brother's house came to such a ruinous condition that 
 of six sons he had not one that was left aUve, for they 
 all perished miserably ; and at last the heritage passed, 
 as you have heard in another tale, to his daughter 
 Rolandine, who was kept in the prison that was made 
 for her aunt. 
 
 " I pray God, ladies, that this example be so pro- 
 fitable to you that none amongst you shall have 
 •any desire to be married for her own pleasure with- 
 out the consent of them to whom obedience is due ; 
 for matrimony is so long-lasting an estate that one 
 ought not lightly to enter upon it, nor without the 
 advice of our best friends and kinsfolk. And do as well 
 as you may, there will be no less pain in it than plea- 
 sure." " In good faith," said Oisille, " were there no 
 God nor law to teach maids to be prudent, this example 
 would suffice to make them take more heed to their 
 kin and not marry at their own pleasure." " Yet," said 
 Nomerfide, " she who has one good day in the year is 
 not unhappy all her life. She had the pleasure of see- 
 ing and speaking for a long while with him whom she 
 loved better than herself, nay more, she enjoyed his 
 affection without scruple or stain on her conscience. So 
 srreat do I esteem this contentment that I believe it sur- 
 passed all the sorrow that she bore." " You will have 
 it, then," said Saffredent, " that women have more plea- 
 sure to love a man than pain to see him killed before 
 their eyes .? " " Net so," answered Nomerfide, " for then 
 I should speak against the experience I have had of 
 women; but I mean that an unwonted pleasure, such as 
 to marry the man we love best of all, should be greater 
 than the pain of losing him by death, for death is a
 
 244 1^^^^ Forhmate Lovers, 
 
 thing common enough." " Ay," said Geburon, "natural 
 death ; but this was over cruel. And it seems to me a 
 strange matter, for he was neither her father nor her 
 husband, but only her brother, and she was of an age 
 lawfully to marry whom she would. How then durst 
 he do this cruel deed } " " I find it no strange matter," 
 said Hircan, "for his sister, whom he loved and who 
 was beyond his power, he did not kill, but only the 
 gentleman whom he had brought up as his son and 
 loved as his brother, and after having given him honour 
 and wealth in his service, he took his sister in marriage, 
 the which by no means did appertain to him." " Like- 
 wise," said Nomerfide," " 'twas no common nor wonted 
 pleasure for a lady of a noble house to marry one of her 
 gentleman servants for love. If the death was strange, 
 so also was the delight, since it had against it the 
 opinion of all wise men, and for it the contentment of 
 a heart full of love, and a restful soul, since God was by 
 no means offended at it. And as to the death which you 
 call cruel, methinks, since we must all die, the shortest 
 death is the sweetest, for we know that it is a way we 
 all must go. And I deem happy them that stay no 
 long while before the gates thereof, and who from that 
 we call Jiappiness in this world, fly without delay to the 
 true happiness that endureth for ever." " What call you 
 the gates of death .'' " said Simontault. " They that are 
 troubled in spirit," answered Nomerfide ; " they that are 
 for a long while sick, and from the extremity of sufi"er- 
 ing in mind and body, find death come too slowly ; 
 these, I say, tarry at the gates of death and shall tell 
 you the resting-places, where is less rest than lamenta- 
 t'on. This lady must have lost her husband by death, 
 but, through the wrath of her brother, she was saved
 
 Day the Fourth. 245 
 
 from seeing him a long time sick or weary of life. And 
 she, converting the joy she had with him to the service 
 of our Lord, could well count herself happy." " Is 
 this nothing," said Longarine, " that she was shamefully 
 imprisoned } " " I suppose," said Nomerfide, " that one 
 who loves with a perfect love and in obedience to God's 
 commandment knows not shame nor dishonour, save 
 when it lessens or diminishes the perfection of her love. 
 For the glory of true love knows no shame ; and as to 
 the imprisoning of her body, I believe that since her 
 heart was at large, joined to God and her husband, she 
 made no account of it, but thought her loneliness great 
 freedom. For inasmuch as she saw not what she loved 
 she could have nought better than to think upon these 
 without ceasing, and stone walls are not too narrow, 
 when thought can pass through them at its pleasure." ^ 
 " The words of Nomerfide are true altogether," said 
 Simontault, " but he who did this thing in his madness 
 would well be called unhappy, inasmuch as he offended 
 God, love, and honour." " In good faith," said Geburon, 
 " I marvel that the love of woman is so various a thing, 
 and plainly see that the more virtuousness the more 
 love, but those who have less love, wishing to appear 
 virtuous, simulate it." " It is true," said Parlamente, 
 " that a heart, honouring God and man, loves more 
 than one that is vicious, and fears not to be seen 
 to the very bottom." " I have ever heard," said 
 Simontault, "that men are not to be reproved for seek- 
 ing the love of women, since God hath put into their 
 
 1 Nomerfide, according to my surmise, is Isabeau d'Albret, the wife of 
 Rolandine's son, of the great-nephew of Catherine de Rohan. This 
 would account for her tone of unusual feeling in discussing the tragic his- 
 tories of her husband's house. Saffredent (Ren6 de Rohan) is silent upon 
 both occasions.
 
 546 The Fortwiate Lovers. 
 
 hearts the love and boldness to ask ; and in the hearts 
 of women He hath put the fear and the chastity to re- 
 fuse. So if a man use the powers given him and be 
 punished, a wrong hath been done him.'' " But this was 
 a hard matter," said Longarine, " that he had a long 
 time praised him to his sister. Methinks his brain-sick 
 cruelty is like unto a man that kept a fountain, and 
 praised the beauty of the water to one who while he 
 looked on it fainted with thirst. But when the thirsty 
 soul would fain have tasted the water, the keeper killed 
 him." " Truly," said Parlamente, " by the sweetness of 
 his words he kindled a flame that he should by no 
 means have put out with the sword." " I marvel," said 
 Simontault, "that it was taken ill for a simple gentle- 
 man, using no force or pretence, to take to wife a 
 woman of a noble house, since the philosophers consider 
 the least of men to be more worth than the mightiest 
 and most virtuous woman in the world." " To the 
 intent that the Commonwealth should be ordered 
 peacefully," said Dagoucin ; "for this reason, they take 
 account alone of the rank of the families, the age of the 
 parties, and the ordinances of the laws, without weigh- 
 ing the love or the virtue of men, and all this lest 
 things be turned upside down. Whence it comes that 
 in marriages made between equals, according to the 
 judgment of kinsfolk and all men, man and wife are 
 often so diverse in heart, complexion, and disposition, 
 that in place of entering upon an estate leading to 
 salvation, they journey to the by-ways that are about 
 Hell." "Also," said Geburon, "it has come to pass 
 that they who married for love, without regard to rank 
 or lineage, having like hearts, complexions, and dis- 
 positions, have nevertheless repented them of their
 
 Day ihe Fourth. 247 
 
 folly. For a great love that knows no reason turns 
 often to brainsick jealousy." " It seems to me," said 
 Parlamente, "that neither the one way nor the other is 
 praiseworthy ; but that folk should submit themselves 
 to the will of God without regard to rank, or riches, or 
 pleasure ; but loving with a virtuous love, and with the 
 goodwill of their kinsfolk, they should desire to live in 
 the estate of marriage as God and nature have ordained. 
 And though in this life there be no estate but has its 
 tribulation, yet have I seen these last spend their days 
 without regret ; and we married folk here present are 
 not so unhappy that some of us are not in this number." 
 Forthwith Hircan, Geburon, Simontault, and Safifredent 
 swore that they had married after this sort, and had 
 never repented thereof; and whatsoever of truth there 
 was in it, their wives were so content thereat, that 
 thinking they could hear nothing more to their taste, 
 they went to the church to give thanks to God on that 
 account, and found there the monks ready to sing 
 evensong. Service ended, they went to supper, not 
 without much talk of their marriages, the which lasted 
 all the evening, as they told the changes and chances 
 that befel them while they courted their wives. But 
 though these stories were no less pleasant than those in 
 the meadow, they cannot be set down at length, inso- 
 much as one would break into the speech of another. 
 So great delight did they take therein that bedtime 
 came before they were ware of it. Mistress Oisille 
 made the company separate, and so joyously did they 
 go to bed, that I believe the married folk slept no 
 longer than the rest, telling again of their loves that 
 were overpast. And in such pleasant sort was passed 
 the night, even until the morning.
 
 DAY THE FIFTH. 
 
 ON THE FIFTH DAY RELATION IS MADE OF THE VIRTUOUSNESS 
 OF SUCH MAIDS AND WIVES OF WHOM HONOUR HATH BEEN 
 PREFERRED BEFORE PLEASURE ; OF THEM LIKEWISE WHO 
 HAVE DONE THE CONTRARY THERETO ; AND OF THE 
 SIMPLENESS OF CERTAIN OTHERS. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 When the morning was come Oisille had made ready 
 for them a spiritual breakfast of such good savour, that 
 it was sufficient both for body and soul ; and at the 
 hearing of it the whole company was mighty attentive, 
 and it seemed to them that they had never heard a 
 sermon to such profit before. And when they heard 
 the last bell ring for mass, they went into the church to 
 meditate on the godly discourse they had heard. After 
 mass was heard, and they had sauntered about for a 
 while, they set themselves at table, promising one 
 another that the present day should be as brave as any 
 that went before. And Saffredent said that he would 
 the bridge was another month a-building, for the de- 
 light he had in their entertainment ; but my lord abbot 
 made the workmen use great diligence, since it was by 
 no means to his pleasure to live among so many honest 
 folk into whose presence he could not bring his accus- 
 tomed female pilgrims. And when they had rested 
 some while after dinner they returned to the meadow, 
 where, each having taken his seat, they asked Par-
 
 Day the Fifth. 249 
 
 lamente to whom she would give her vote, . . . 
 " Methinks," said she, " Saffredent would do well to 
 
 begin the day, for* he will make us merry 
 
 " Nay, for that I give yon my vote, Nomerfide," said 
 Geburon, " and, prithee, forget you are a woman, that 
 we may learn what it is that men accounted truthful 
 tell of the folly of your sex." " Since virtue will have 
 it so, and you give me your vote, I will tell you what I 
 know. I have heard none here, be it man or woman, 
 that has spared to speak evil of the friars, and for the 
 compassion I have for them, I am resolved to speak 
 well of them." 
 
 NOVEL XLIV. 
 
 How a Grey Friar for telling the truth receives two pigs in 
 
 place o/one. 
 
 There came a Grey Friar to my lady of Sedan, who 
 was of the house and lineage of Croy, asking of her a 
 pig, which every year she gave them for an alms. My lord 
 of Sedan, who was a wise man and of a pleasant speech, 
 made the good father to eat at their table, and amongst 
 other talk said to him, to put him in the lists : " You do 
 well, father, to ask for alms, while you are yet unknown ; 
 for I greatly fear, when once your hypocrisy is dis- 
 covered, you will eat no longer the bread of the poor 
 children, gained in the sweat of the father's brow." 
 The friar was in no wise taken aback by this, but 
 replied : " My lord, our Order is on such a sure found- 
 ation, that while the world remains it will endure ; for 
 this foundation will never fail while man and woman 
 inhabit the earth." My lord of Sedan was very desirous
 
 250 TJie Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 to know what was this foundation, and earnestly prayed 
 the friar to tell him, who after many excuses at last 
 said : " Since you are pleased to command me to tell 
 you, you shall know that our Order is built upon the 
 foolishness of women, and as long as the world hold a 
 silly woman or a foolish, we shall not die of hunger." 
 My lady of Sedan, being of a choleric complexion, at 
 the hearing of this grew so wrath, that had her husband 
 not been there, she would have done the friar a hurt, 
 and swore a great oath that he should not have the pig 
 she had promised him ; but my lord of Sedan, for that 
 the friar had not concealed the truth, swore he should 
 have two pigs, and made take them to his monastery. 
 
 " So it was, ladies, that the friar, being sure the 
 benefits of the ladies would never fail him, found means 
 by concealing nothing of the truth, to have the favour 
 and the alms of men ; if he had been a flatterer and 
 dissembler he would have been more agreeable to the 
 ladies, but not so profitable to himself and his brethren." 
 The novel was not brought to an end without much 
 laughter from all the company, and most of all from 
 them that knew the lord and lady of Sedan. And 
 Hircan said: "The friars then should by no means 
 endeavour by their preaching to make the women wise, 
 seeing that their foolishness doth so much profit them." 
 And Parlamente said: "They do not by their preaching 
 endeavour to make women wise, but to make them 
 think themselves wise ; for they that are altogether 
 foolish and worldly give them no great alms, but they 
 who for that they often go to the monastery church, 
 and carry with them paternosters marked with deaths- 
 heads, and wear their hoods lower than other women, 
 think to be esteemed wise, but are in truth foolish. For
 
 Day the Fifth. 2 5 1 
 
 they ground their salvation on the confidence they have 
 in these sons of iniquity, whom for their outward 
 appearance they think to be well nigh gods." " But 
 how shall we not believe on them," said Ennasuitte, 
 " being that they are ordained of our prelates to preach 
 the gospel to us, and to reprove us of our vices ? " 
 " Because," said Parlamente, " we have discovered their 
 hypocrisy, and know the diversity between the teaching 
 of God and the teaching of the devil." " Jesus ! " said 
 Ennasuitte, " do you think that they would dare to 
 preach bad doctrine .'' " " Think, say you," said Parla- 
 mente, " nay, I am assured that they believe nothing 
 less than the Gospel ; I speak of the bad amongst 
 them, for I have known many an honest friar who 
 preached the word in all purity and simplicity, and lived 
 without scandal, ambition, or covetousness, and with a 
 pure and chaste heart, neither feigned nor constrained. 
 But w'ith such good stones as these the streets are not 
 paved — nay, rather for the most part with the contrary 
 thereto ; and the good tree beareth good fruit." " I 
 thought of a surety," said Ennasuitte, " that we were 
 bound, under pain of mortal sin, to believe whatso- 
 ever they told us sitting in the chair of truth ; that is, 
 when they preached only what is in the Scripture, or in 
 the comments of the holy doctors of the Church." " For 
 my part," said Parlamente, " I cannot be ignorant that 
 there have been amongst them men of very bad faith, 
 and notably one Colimant, a brother of the Order, and 
 a doctor in theology, and a preacher of great repute, 
 was fain to persuade some of the brethren that the 
 Gospel is not more worthy of belief than Caesar his 
 Commentaries, or any other authentic history,^ and 
 1 In the beginning of the sixteenth century the enthusiasm for Greek
 
 252 The Fortunate Lovers, 
 
 from that hour I have not placed my trust in the words 
 of any of their preachers, if I found it not conformable 
 to the word of God, which is the true touchstone 
 whereby we can know truth from lies." " Be assured," 
 said Oisille, " that they who often humbly read therein 
 will never be deceived by fables devised of men, for he 
 that hath a mind filled with all truth can by no means 
 receive a lie." " Yet," said Simontault, " methinks one 
 of simple mind is more easy to be cozened than 
 another." " Ay," said Longarine, " if you account 
 foolishness simplicity." " I tell you," replied Simon- 
 tault, " that a good woman, mild and simple, is more 
 easy to be cozened than a crafty and malicious." 
 
 " I plainly see," said Oisille, " that if we heard Simon- 
 tault his conclusions to the end, it would be compline 
 and not evensong time, for he has the matter at heart. 
 Wherefore let us begone to praise God that this day 
 has been spent with no more grievous quarrel." So she 
 arose, and all the rest followed her ; but Simontault 
 and Longarine ceased not their quarrel, and yet so 
 gently was it ordered that Simontault, without drawing 
 his sword, came off the conqueror, convincing her that 
 the strongest passion was the greatest necessity. 
 Thereupon they came into the quire, where the monks 
 awaited them, and, having heard evensong, made their 
 
 philosophy had permeated society. Churchmen and Catholics openly dis- 
 cussed the question of the immortality of the soul, many asserting that 
 the intelligent soul was mortal, or that all men shared in a universal soul. 
 In December 1513, the Lateran Council found it necessary to assert the 
 truth of Scripture, and to require belief in the individual soul. But 
 this mild protest did not stem the current of free thought. The preacher 
 Colimant had probably been in Italy, where no exception would have been 
 taken to the comparison of Scripture with so respectable a classic as the 
 Commentaries of Julius Caesar.
 
 Day the Fifth. 253 
 
 supper as much off words as meat. For their talk 
 lasted the whole while they were at board and far into 
 the evening, till that Oisille said they would do well to 
 give rest to their imaginations, and that the five days 
 overpast were filled with such fine tales that she was in 
 great fear lest the sixth should not equal them, since it 
 were not possible, even should they invent them, to tell 
 better tales than they had already recounted. But 
 Geburon said that, as long as the world lasted, things 
 would be done worthy to be had in remembrance. 
 "^For the wickedness of the wicked is always as it has 
 been, and also the goodness of the good. So long as 
 evil and good reign upon the earth they will ever ac- 
 complish new deeds, although it is written there is 
 nothing new under the sun. But we, inasmuch as we 
 are not called to the privy counsels of God, and there- 
 fore know not the causes of things, find all things new 
 the more admirable that we ourselves cannot or will 
 not do them, so be not afraid lest the days that are to 
 come be worse than they that went before ; and do you, 
 for your part, endeavour to do your duty." Oisille said 
 she commended herself to God, and in His name bade 
 them good-night. So all the company departed, and 
 the fifth day was brought to a close.
 
 DAY THE SIXTH. 
 
 ON THE SIXTH DAY RELATION IS MADE OF THE DECEITS BE- 
 TWEEN MAN AND WOMAN, THROUGH COVETOUSNESS, 
 VENGEANCE, AND CRAFTINESS. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 On the morrow earlier than she was wont, Oisille went 
 into the hall to make ready her lesson ; and the com- 
 pany being advertised of this, for the desire they had to 
 hear her wholesome exhortations, made such speed to 
 dress themselves that she had no long time to wait. 
 And perceiving their spirits to be stirred up, and having 
 before expounded to them the Epistle of St Paul to the 
 Remans, she on this day read to them the Epistle of 
 St John the Divine, the which is full of all love. So 
 pleasant was this refection to them that were present 
 that, although they had been there a full half-hour over 
 and above the accustomed time, yet tlie whole seemed 
 not more than a quarter of an hour. From thence they 
 passed to the adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, com- 
 mending themselves to the Holy Ghost that what they 
 had heard on that day might be profitable unto them. 
 And after they had broken their fast and rested for 
 a while, they went to the meadow for their wonted 
 pastime. And Oisille asked who should make a be- 
 ginning to the day. Longarine answered and said : 
 " I give my vote to Mistress Oisille : for so good a
 
 Day the Sixth. 255 
 
 lesson hath she given us this morning, that she will 
 doubtless tell us some story worthy of the same." " I 
 am sorry," said Oisille, " that I cannot speak to you 
 this afternoon as profitably as in the morning ; nathe- 
 less, the intent of my history shall not be at variance 
 with that place of Holy Scripture where it is written : 
 ' O, put not your trust in princes, nor in any child of 
 man ; for there is no help in them.' And to the end 
 that this Scripture may not fall into forgetfulness for 
 want of an example, I will give you a true one, and so 
 fresh is it in men's memory that the tears are scarce 
 wiped away from the eyes of them that saw this pitiful 
 sight." 
 
 NOVEL LI. 
 
 The cruel and treacherous vengeatice of an Italian nobleman upon 
 a woman that had done him a displsasure. 
 
 The Duke of Urbino,^ named the Prefect, the same 
 that took to wife the sister of the first Duke of Mantua, 
 had a son of the age of eighteen or twenty years, who 
 
 1 This is Francesco Maria Delia Rovere, Duke of Urbino, nephew of 
 Pope Julius IL, who nominated him Prefect of Rome. His gallant de- 
 fiance of Leo X., and the brave stand he made for his rights to Urbino, 
 redeem his public character from the stains ol a private vengeance. I do 
 not know on what authority Queen Margaret gives this story (only too 
 probable and too often paralleled in the records of Italian houses), but it is 
 natural that the narrators of the " Heptameron " should rejoice to disparage 
 the man who was the defeated rival and the bitter enemy of the father of 
 Catherine de Medici. Francesco Maria Delia Rovere married Eleonora 
 Gonzaga, daughter of P'rancesco 11., Duke of Mantua. He died, not 
 without suspicion of poison, in the year 1538. Readers of this novel 
 should remember the better appearance made by Duke Francesco in that 
 infinitely more enchanting ancestor of the " Heptameron, the unrivalled 
 Courtier of Baldassare Castiglione.
 
 256 The F01' lunate Lovers. 
 
 was in love with the daughter of a good and honourable 
 house, and having the Abbot of Parse for her brother. 
 And since, as the custom of the country is, he was not free 
 to speak with her as he would, he used the help of a 
 gentleman of his following, who was amorous of a young 
 gentlewoman in the service of his mother, mighty pretty 
 and virtuous, and by her the son of the Duke made 
 known to his sweetheart the great affection he had for 
 her. And this the girl thought no shame, taking 
 pleasure in doing him a kindness, and esteeming his 
 intent so good and honourable that she could do no 
 harm by declaring it to his sweetheart. But the Duke, 
 who cared more for the advantage of his house than for 
 honest love, was greatly afraid lest these passages should 
 bring his son into marriage with his mistress, and so 
 kept a shrewd watch. And it was told him that this 
 poor gentlewoman was mixed up in the complot and 
 had given certain letters from his son to her he loved, 
 whereat he was so wrathful, that he determined to take 
 effectual order in the matter. Yet he could not disguise 
 his anger so that the girl should not be advertised of it, 
 and she knowing the craftiness of the Duke that it was 
 great, and his conscience but small, fell into marvellous 
 alarm, and came to the Duchess praying leave to get 
 her gone to some place removed from his sight till his 
 fury was overpast. Her mistress told her that she must 
 first know her husband's will before she gave her leave : 
 all the same she soon understood the Duke's mind 
 towards her, and knowing his complexion, she not 
 only gave her leave, but counselled her to enter a 
 monastery till this storm was blown over. This she did 
 as privily as she was able, but yet the Duke was advised 
 of it, and putting on a feigned gladness, asked his wife
 
 Day the Sixth. 257 
 
 where was the gentlewoman, and she, thinking he knew 
 the truth well, confessed it to him, at which he made a pre- 
 tence of grief.saying she had no need of so doing, and that 
 for his part he wished her no ill, and since the rumour of 
 such things was hurtful, she would do well to come back. 
 His wife replied that if the poor girl were so unhappy 
 as to want his favours, it were better that for some time 
 she should not appear in his presence, but he would give 
 ear to none of her reasons, and bade her order her return. 
 The Duchess failed not to declare to her the will of the 
 Duke, but she could in no wise assure herself thereof, 
 entreating her mistress not to make her thus tempt 
 fortune, and saying she was persuaded that the Duke 
 was not so ready to grant forgiveness as he feigned to 
 be. Natheless the Duchess declared that she should 
 take no hurt, and pledged her honour for her life. And 
 the girl, knowing that her mistress loved her, and would 
 not wantonly deceive her, put trust in her promise, 
 thinking that the Duke would by no means break such 
 a pledge wherein was engaged the honour of his wife, 
 and so returned to the Duchess. But so soon as the 
 Duke was ware of it, he forthwith came into his wife's 
 room, and when he saw the girl, said to his wife: " And 
 so such an one is returned } " Then went he back to 
 his gentlemen, bidding them take her and clap her up in 
 prison. At this the poor Duchess, who on her word had 
 drawn her from the liberties of the monastery, became 
 desperate, throwing herself on her knees before her 
 husband, and entreating him for the love of her and her 
 house not to do such a deed, since in obedience to him 
 she had enticed her from the place where she was in 
 safety. Yet no prayers that she could make availed 
 at all to soften his hard heart, nor to overcome his fi.xcd 
 
 R
 
 258 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 resolve to take vengeance on her, so, not replying to his 
 wife, he went quickly from her, and without form of 
 justice, forgetting alike his God and the honour of his 
 house, he cruelly had the poor gentlewoman hanged. 
 I will not endeavour to tell you of the sorrow of the 
 Duchess, for it was that which should befall an honour- 
 able lady and a kind-hearted, who against the pledge 
 given of her, saw one die whom she was fain to have 
 saved. Still less can be told the bitter grief of the poor 
 gentleman her lover, who failed not to endeavour to the 
 utmost to save his sweetheart's life, offering to die in her 
 stead. But no manner of pity or compassion could touch 
 this Duke, who knew none other happiness than to be 
 avenged on his enemy. So was this innocent gentle- 
 woman put to death by the cruel Duke against all law 
 and honour, and to the great sorrow of them that knew 
 her. 
 
 " Consider, ladies, what cometh of malice when it is 
 joined to power." " I have heard," said Longarine, 
 " that the Italians are subject to three vices in particular, 
 but I never thought their cruel vengeance would have 
 gone thus far, as for so small an occasion to send a 
 woman to a shameful death." Saffredent, laughing, 
 said to her: " Longarine, you have truly told us one 
 of the three vices, but I would know as to the two 
 others." " If you knew not," answered she, " I would 
 tell you, but sure am I that you know them all." " Do 
 you then esteem me," said Safifredent, " so exceeding 
 vicious ? " " Not so," answered Longarine, " but that 
 you know so well the foulness of vice, that better than 
 any other you can avoid it." " Marvel not," said Simon- 
 tault, " at this piece of cruelty, for they that have been 
 in Italy tell of such deeds that this is a mere peccadillo
 
 Day the Sixth, 259 
 
 by comparison."^ " Truly," said Geburon, "when Rivolte 
 was taken by the French, an ItaHan captain, accounted 
 a brave soldier, seeing dead one who was only his enemy 
 in that he was of an opposite faction, tore out his heart, 
 and hastily roasting it, ate it. And he replied to certain 
 that asked how it tasted, that he had never eaten so 
 dainty a dish or one so savoury, and not content with 
 this he killed the wife of the dead man, and snatching 
 from her womb the fruit thereof, dashed it against a 
 wall. Then he filled the two bodies of husband and 
 wife with oats, and made his horses eat from them. 
 Think you this man would not surely have put a girl to 
 death, whom he suspected to have done him a wrong } " 
 " It must be confessed," said Ennasuitte, " that the Duke 
 had a greater fear lest his son should make a poor mar- 
 riage, than desire to give him a wife according to his 
 taste." " I suppose one cannot doubt," said Simontault, 
 " that the habit of the Italians is to love more than 
 nature things merely created for the service of the 
 same." " Nay, and worse than this," said Hircan, " for 
 they make a god of things that are against nature." 
 "These be the sins I would tell you of," said Longarine, 
 " for 'tis well known that to love money, beyond our 
 honest necessities, is to commit idolatry." Parlamente 
 said that St Paul had not forgotten the vices proper to 
 the Italians and to all them who thought to pass and 
 overcome other men in honour, prudence, and earthly 
 reason, on which so strongly do they build themselves 
 
 that they give not to God the glory that belongs to Him. 
 ******* 
 
 ^ Rivolta was taken by Louis XII., 1509. A young Italian gentleiiiau 
 was executed when the French were in Naples in 1495, for having cut oat 
 and eaten the heart of a French soldier.
 
 26o The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 " There be those," said Nomerfide, " who have a far 
 greater love for their monies than their conscience." "I 
 pray you," said Safifredent, " tell us the tale, and I will 
 give you my vote." " I had determined," said she, " not 
 to tell so short a story, but since it comes to hand I 
 will do so." 
 
 NOVEL LV. 
 How a widow sold a Jwrsefor a ducat and a cat for ninety and f line. 
 
 In the town of Saragossa there lived a rich merchant, 
 who seeing his death draw nigh, and that he could no 
 longer keep what perchance he had gathered together 
 by evil means, thought that if he made God a small 
 present, it would be in some sort a satisfaction for his 
 sins ; as if God would sell His grace for money. And 
 when he had set his house in order, he said that he de- 
 vised his fine Spanish horse to be sold at the highest 
 price that could be got, and the money given to the 
 poor ; praying his wife not to fail, so soon as he was 
 dead, to sell the horse and distribute the money accord- 
 ing to his desire. And when the burial of him was at 
 an end, and the first tears had fallen, the wife, who was 
 no more of a fool than other women of Spain, went to a 
 servant who had likewise heard his master's pleasure, 
 and said to him : " It seems to me that the loss of the 
 husband I loved so well is enough for me to bear, with- 
 out also losing his substance. Yet I would in nowise 
 disobey his will, but rather do it after a more perfect 
 manner, for the poor man, misled of the covetous priests, 
 thought to do God a great service by giving, after his 
 death, these monies, of which in his life he would not 
 have given a single ducat in a case of extreme necessity,
 
 Day the Sixth. 26 1 
 
 as you well know. "Wherefore I am of opinion that we 
 do what he charged us at his death, and after a better 
 fashion than he would have done himself had he lived 
 five days longer ; but not a single soul must be privy to 
 the matter." And when she had the servant's promise 
 to keep it secret she said to him : " You shall go sell the 
 horse, and to them that ask how much, you shall answer 
 a ducat ; but I have a mighty serviceable cat which I 
 am minded to put into the market, and you must sell it 
 together with the horse for ninety-nine ducats, and so 
 the cat and the horse will bring the hundred ducats that 
 my husband would have taken for the horse alone." 
 The servant forthwith did as he was commanded of 
 his mistress, and as he led the horse through the market 
 place, holding the cat under his arm, a gentleman who 
 had afore seen the horse and desired to have it, asked 
 the price thereof. The servant replied a ducat. The 
 gentleman said : " Prithee do not mock me." " I do 
 assure you," said the man, " it will cost you but a single 
 ducat. It is true you must buy the cat along with it, of 
 which the price is ninety-nine ducats." Straightway the 
 gentleman, thinking it was a reasonable bargain, paid 
 him one ducat for the horse, and ninety and nine for the 
 cat, as it was asked of him, and bore away his commod- 
 ities. The servant, on the other hand, took the money 
 to his mistress, which she received right merrily, and 
 failed not to give the one ducat that was the price of the 
 horse to the poor beggars, as her husband had enjoined, 
 and kept the ninety and nine for herself and her children. 
 " What think you .-* Was she not wiser than her 
 husband, and was not her care for her conscience small 
 in comparison with her care for his money .-'" "I 
 think," said Parlamente, " that she loved her husband
 
 262 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 well, but since men for the most part wander when they 
 are near to death, she knowing his intent, interpreted 
 his words to the profit of her children ; wherefore I 
 esteem her to have done prudently." "What!" said 
 Geburon, " do you not esteem it a great sin to make 
 the will of the departed of none effect ? " " I do so 
 esteem it," answered Parlamente, " being the deviser is 
 of sound mind and not wandering." "Call you it 
 wanderincf to e^ive of one's substance to the Church and 
 to the poor 1 " " By no means," said Parlamente, " when 
 a man distributes to the poor what God hath put in his 
 hands, but to make alms of another's goods I esteem 
 no great wisdom. For you commonly see the worst 
 usurers build the bravest and most admirable chapels, 
 thinking to appease God for a hundred thousand ducats 
 of robbery with ten thousand ducats of building, as if 
 God could not keep account." " Truly," said Oisille, 
 " I have often marvelled how they think to do God a 
 pleasure with the selfsame things that he reproved when 
 on earth, such as buildings adorned with gold and 
 painting. But if they would attend to what God hath 
 said in one place where he asks of us not sacrifice but a 
 humble and contrite heart, and in another where St 
 Paul tells us we are the temples in the which God would 
 dwell ; they would labour to adorn their souls while 
 they are alive, and not wait for the hour when men can 
 do nor good nor evil, laying a charge on them th it 
 remain to do alms to the poor whom, while they are 
 alive, they deign not so much as to look upon. But 
 He that knoweth the heart of man is not deceived, and 
 will judge them not only for their works but also for 
 the faith and love they have had for Him." " How 
 comes it then," said Geburon, "that the Grey Friars
 
 Day the Sixth. 263 
 
 and Mendicants at cur death talk of nothing but of 
 making benefactions to their monasteries, assuring us 
 that they will send us forthwith to paradise, whether 
 we will or no ? " " What ! Geburon," said Hircan, 
 " have you forgotten the craft of the friars that you 
 yourself have told us of, that you ask how it is possible 
 for them to lie ? I declare to you that I deem them 
 the greatest liars in the world, and though they that 
 speak on behalf of the whole community are not worthy 
 of reproof, yet there are certain of them that forget 
 their vow of poverty to satisfy their covetousness." 
 "Methinks, Hircan," said Nomerfide, "you know of 
 some tale to the purpose. I pray you, if it be worthy 
 of this company here present, to tell it." " I will do 
 so," said Hircan, "though it wearies me to talk of these 
 folk, for it seems to me that they are in the number of 
 them of whom Virgil says to Dante : ' Pass on, and 
 heed them not.' ^ Natheless, to show you that they 
 leave not their worldly passions with their worldly 
 habits, I will tell you how the case fell out." 
 
 NOVEL LVI. 
 Of a Cozenii\^ Device of an Old Friar. 
 
 It was told to a French lady in Padua that in the 
 bishop's prison there was a friar, and seeing that all 
 
 1 " Non ragionam di lor, ma guarda e passa." — " Purgatorio," iii. 51. 
 These words are spoken of the melancholy souls of those who lived 
 without virtue and without infamy, idle, useless, neither for God nor 
 against Him, and who (cast out alike from heaven and hell) must bewail 
 themselves for ever through a dim and blind eternity, forgotten by mercy 
 and ignored by justice.
 
 264 The Forhinate Lovers. 
 
 men made a jest of him, she asked the reason of it. 
 And she was told that this friar, an old man, was con- 
 fessor to an honourable and devout lady who for some 
 time had been a widow, and had one only daughter 
 whom she loved so much that her care was but to heap 
 up riches for her and to find her a good match. And 
 perceiving her daughter to be growing of age, she in- 
 cessantly troubled herself to find her a husband who 
 could live with them in peace and quietness ; that is to 
 say, she would have a man with a good and honest con- 
 science. And since she had heard a foolish preacher 
 declare that it is better to do wrong by the counsel of 
 the doctors of the Church than do right by the inspira- 
 tion of the Holy Ghost, she addressed herself to her 
 confessor, a man then stricken in years, a doctor in 
 theology, esteemed of good life by all the town, assur- 
 ing herself that with his counsel and prayers she would 
 not fail to gain peace and quietness for herself and her 
 daughter. And on her earnestly entreating him to 
 choose a husband for her daughter, and such a man as 
 he knew would be befitting for a maid that loved God 
 and her conscience, he replied that first of all he must 
 implore the grace of the Holy Ghost with prayer and 
 fasting, and then, God confirming his understanding, he 
 would hope to find what she wanted. So the friar went 
 apart to ponder the matter, and hearing from the lady 
 that she had got together five hundred ducats to give 
 her daughter's husband, and would feed, lodge, and 
 clothe the pair, he bethought him that there was a 
 young friar of his acquaintance, of a good figure and 
 pleasant countenance, to whom he would give the maid, 
 the house, and an assured maintenance, and keep the 
 five hundred ducats as an easement for his unspeakable
 
 Day the Sixth. 265 
 
 covetousness. And having spoken to the young friar 
 he agreed with him, and returned to the lady, saying : 
 " I steadfastly believe that God hath sent me his angel 
 Raphael, as he did to Tobit, to find a perfect husband 
 for your daughter, for I do assure you I have in my 
 house the bravest gentleman in all Italy, who, having 
 several times seen your daughter, is mightily pleased 
 with her, and this very day, while I prayed, God sent 
 him to me, and he declared the desire he had for this 
 marriage ; and I, knowing his house and lineage, and 
 that he comes of a very notable stock, promised him to 
 speak with you on the matter. It is true that one 
 thing, and one only, is not as it should be with him ; 
 that is, that, wishing to save a friend whom another 
 would have killed, he drew his sword for to part them ; 
 but it fell out that his friend killed the other, and so he, 
 though he struck no blow, is fled from his town, since 
 he was present to the murder and drew his sword. 
 And, by the counsel of his kinsfolk, he has hidden him- 
 self in this town in the habit of a scholar, and remains 
 here unknown till his friends have brought the matter to 
 a conclusion, which he hopes will be no long time. 
 Wherefore the marriage must be done secretly, and you 
 must be content for him to go during the day to the 
 public lecture, and sup and lie here every night." To 
 this the good woman answered : " I deem your words, 
 father, to be spoken greatly to my advantage, for at the 
 least I shall have by me that I desire most of all 
 things." Then the friar brought in his fellow, clad in a 
 crimson satin doublet, and altogether very brave, so 
 that as soon as he was come the betrothal was per- 
 formed, and on the last stroke of midnight mass was 
 sung and they were married. Then they went to lie
 
 2 66 The Fo7'tunate Lovers. 
 
 together, but at the dawn of day the bridegroom said to 
 his wife that he must begone to the college if he would 
 remain unknown, and, taking his doublet and his long 
 robe, together with his coif of black silk, he bade fare- 
 well to his wife, who was still in bed, and promised to 
 take his supper with her every evening, but she must 
 not look for him at dinner. So he went his way and 
 left his wife, she esteeming herself the most fortunate of 
 women, in that she had met with such a good match. 
 But the young married friar returned to the old father 
 confessor, and gave him the five hundred ducats accord- 
 ing to their agreement, and in the evening supped with 
 her who took him for her husband, and in such wise did 
 he obtain her love and that of his mother-in-law that 
 they would not have changed him for the greatest 
 prince in the world. 
 
 This manner of living endured for some time, but 
 since God has compassion on them that are deceived 
 through no fault of their own, He put it into the hearts 
 of the mother and daughter to go to hear mass at the 
 Grey Friars' Church of St Francis, where likewise they 
 would see their good confessor who had provided the 
 one with so dutiful a son-in-law, and the other with so 
 brave a husband. And it chanced that, not being able 
 to find the confessor, or any other of their acquaintance, 
 they were pleased to wait his coming, and in the mean- 
 while to hear high mass, which was then beginning. And 
 as the daughter gazed with attentive eyes on the holy 
 mysteries being performed at the altar, when the priest 
 turned him to the people to say the Dominns vobiscian, 
 she was struck with a great astonishment, for it seemed 
 to her that the priest was either her husband or the ex- 
 press image of him. But she said not a word, and
 
 Day the Sixth. 267 
 
 waited till he should turn a second time, looking upon 
 him more carefullv, and doubted not that he was the 
 man. Wherefore she touched her mother, who was in 
 a devout contemplation of the mysteries, and said to 
 her : " Alas ! alas ! mother, who is that I see ? " Her 
 mother asked her who it was. " 'Tis my husband that 
 is now singing mass, or the one man in the world who 
 is altogether like to him." Her mother, who had not 
 carefully looked upon him, said : " I entreat you, 
 daughter, let no such imaginations enter your brain, for 
 'tis a thing plainly impossible that these holy men 
 should devise such a cozening device, and you will sin 
 grievously against God if you put faith in this fantasy." 
 Natheless the mother did not omit to look upon him, 
 and when he turned him at the Ite niissa est she clearly 
 perceived that never were twin brothers more like to 
 one another than this priest to her son-in-law. Yet so 
 simple was she that she would fain have said : " Save 
 me, O God, from believing mine own eyes ! " But since 
 it touched her daughter she would not leave the matter 
 thus in darkness, and resolved to know the truth of it. 
 And when the time was come in the evening for the 
 husband to return, the mother said to her daughter : 
 " Now, if you are willing, we can know the truth con- 
 cerning your husband, for as soon as he is bedded I 
 will come in, and do you snatch off his coif from behind 
 so that he perceive you not, and we shall sec if he has 
 a tonsure like him who sang mass." As it was re- 
 solved, so it was done, for when that evil husband was 
 in bed the old dame came in, and while she took him 
 by the hands, as if in jest, her daughter snatched off his 
 coif and left him with his fine tonsure, whereat the two 
 women were mightily astounded. But forthwith they
 
 268 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 called the servants that were in the house, and made 
 them take him and keep him fast in bonds till the 
 morning, and no excuse or talking at all availed him. 
 And on the morrow the lady sent for her confessor, 
 feigning to have some great secret for his ear, so he 
 came in great haste, and she made take him like the 
 young friar, reproaching him with the deceit he had 
 used toward her. And after this they were haled before 
 the judges, and these, if they were honest folk, would 
 by no means let them escape unpunished. 
 
 " By this, ladies, you perceive that they who are 
 vowed to poverty are not freed from the temptation of 
 covetousness, which is the cause of many evils." " Nay, 
 but rather many blessings," said Saffredent, "for the 
 monk made good cheer on the five hundred ducats the 
 old woman would have stored up, and the poor maid, 
 who was in such earnest expectation of a husband, was 
 enabled thereby to have two if she had a mind, and 
 knew better how to speak the truth of all hierarchies." 
 " Your positions," said Oisille, " are always of the falsest, 
 for you think that every woman is of the same com- 
 plexion as yourself" " With your good favour, mis- 
 tress," said Saffredent, " I maintain no such thing, for I 
 would that women were as easy to satisfy as we are." 
 " That was an evil speech," said Oisille, " for there is 
 not one present that knoweth not to the contrary. And 
 to prove the truth thereof, doth not the story that was 
 but now told show the simpleness of poor womenfolk, 
 and the craft of those we consider far better than other 
 men ; for neither mother nor daughter wished to do 
 according to their own will, but submitted themselves 
 unto ghostly counsel." " And some women," said Lon- 
 garine, "are so hard to please that they think they
 
 Day the Sixth. 26q 
 
 ought to have angels for husbands." " For which 
 cause," said Simontault, " they often light upon devils ; 
 and chiefly they that, putting no trust in God, deem by 
 their own good sense, or that of another, to find that 
 happiness in this world which is given alone of God." 
 "What! Simontault," said Oisille, " I knew not there 
 was so much of good in you." " Mistress," answered 
 Simontault, " 'tis pity I have had no trial, for by 
 reason of your not knowing me, you have already 
 passed a bad judgment on me ; but since a friar hath 
 intromitted with my craft, why should not I practise 
 the craft of a friar .'' " " This, then, you call your 
 craft," said Parlamentc, " to deceive women } Out of 
 your own mouth you are condemned." " When I shall 
 have deceived a hundred thousand," said Simontault, 
 " even then I shall not be avenged for the torments 
 that one hath made to suffer." " I know," answered 
 Parlamente, " how often you make complaint of the 
 ladies, and all the while we see you so stout and joyous 
 that it is not to be believed that you have suffered all 
 the ills you say. But as La Belle Dame Sans Merci 
 replies, jF^// do well to talk thus since yoiL drazv some com- 
 fort from it." " You bring in a notable doctor, Alain 
 Chartier," said Simontault, " who not only is wearisome 
 himself, but makes all who read him and follow his 
 teaching wearisome likewise." " Yet," replied Parla- 
 mente, "his teaching is as profitable to maids as any I 
 know of." " If it were thus," said Simontault, "and the 
 ladies were without compassion, we could give our 
 horses a rest, and let our armour rust till next war, and 
 think of nought else but the household. And, prithee, 
 tell me whether it is a brave thing for a lady to have the 
 name of being without pity, without charity, without
 
 270 The Fortintate Lovers. 
 
 love, and without compassion ? " " Let her not be," 
 answered Parlamente, " without charity and love ; but 
 this word compassion hath such an ill sound in a woman's 
 ears, that we cannot use it without doing a hurt to our 
 honour ; for compassion is to grant some favour which 
 is asked, and we know what favour a man would ask." 
 " With your good pleasure, mistress," said Simontault, 
 " some there be so reasonable that they ask but a 
 word." " You make me to remember," said Parlamente, 
 " him who was content with a glove." " We must 
 know," said Hircan, "who was this easy lover, where- 
 fore I give you my vote." "And I will willingly tell 
 the tale," said Parlamente, " for it is full of honourable 
 passages." 
 
 NOVEL LVII. 
 
 The great delectation takett by an English lord in a very small 
 
 matter. 
 
 It chanced that King Lewis the Eleventh ^ sent my 
 lord de Montmorency into England as his ambassador, 
 who was so welcomed that the King and all the lords 
 loved and esteemed him exceedingly, and did so much 
 as tell him their secret occasions that they might have 
 his advice thereon. One day, as he sat at a feast the 
 King made for him, he had by him at the board a lord 
 of a great house, who had a small lady's glove fixed on 
 to his doublet by golden hooks, and where the fingers 
 joined it was so adorned with diamonds, rubies, ame- 
 
 1 Perhaps this mention of Louis XL is another disguise. The first 
 Montmorency whom we can ascertain to have been sent on an embassy 
 to England was fVan^ois de Montmorency, Seigneur de la Rochepot, 
 who went there in 1446. This must be about the very time that Margaret 
 composed the Sixth Day of the " Heptameron."
 
 Day the Sixth. 2 7 r 
 
 thysts, and pearls, that it was assuredly a glove of great 
 price. My lord de Montmorency looked at it so often 
 that he who wore it perceived he would fain ask where- 
 fore it was so nnagnificent, and esteeming that the tale 
 would be altogether to his advantage he began : " I 
 plainly perceive that you find it a strange thing for me 
 to have thus gorgeously arrayed a poor glove, and I 
 still more desire to tell you the reason, for I esteem you 
 for an honest gentleman and one who knows what 
 manner of passion is love, and if I have done well 
 therein you shall praise me for it, and if not, you will 
 make excuse for me, inasmuch as the same love bears 
 rule in every honourable heart. Know then that all 
 my life I have loved one lady, whom I love now, and 
 shall love after her death. But though my heart was 
 so bold as to address itself in a high quarter, yet my 
 tongue could not take courage to speak, and for seven 
 years I tarried without a sign, fearing lest, if she was 
 ware of it, I should lose the means I had of often 
 seeing her, the which I feared more than death. But 
 one day, as we were in a meadow, while I looked upon 
 her, so violently did my heart beat, that I lost all colour 
 and the manner of my countenance was changed. And 
 she perceiving this, and asking what ailed me, I an- 
 swered that it was a heartache hardly to be borne, and 
 she, thinking it was a sickness in which love had no 
 share, showed pity on me. Wherefore I entreated her 
 to put her hand upon my heart to see how grievously 
 it was beating, and this she did, but more out of kindness 
 than love, and as I held her hand upon my heart, it fell 
 to beating in such wise, that she perceived I had spoken 
 nought but the truth. And then holding her hand upon 
 my breast I said to her : ' Alas ! mistress, take this poor
 
 272 The Fortn7iate Lovers. 
 
 heart of mine, that would fain break through my breast 
 and lie in the hand of you from whom I crave favour, 
 and life, and pity ; wherefore I must now tell you of 
 the love I have so long concealed, since neither I nor 
 my heart can overcome this almighty deity.' And 
 when she heard this discourse of mine, finding it mighty 
 strange, she would have drawn back her hand, but I 
 kept it so that this glove was left to me in the place of 
 her cruel hand. And since I have never since had any 
 intercourse with her, I have fixed the glove upon my 
 heart as the best emplaster for it, and have adorned it 
 with all my fairest jewels, though I hold the glove itself 
 as more excellent a thing than this whole realm of 
 England, nor do I esteem any of the world's goods 
 equal to having it upon my breast." My lord de 
 Montmorency, who would have rather had the hand 
 than the glove of a lady, extolled him for his honourable 
 dealing, saying he was the most perfect lover he had 
 ever seen and worthy of kinder treatment, since of so 
 small'a thing he had made so much. Though perchance, 
 if he had more than the glove, he would die from mere 
 excess of pleasure. To all this the English lord agreed, 
 not perceiving that the other was making a mock of 
 him. 
 
 " If all men were thus honourable, the ladies 
 might well trust them, since the cost would be but 
 a glove." " I was of the acquaintance of my lord de 
 Montmorency," said Geburon, "and I am sure he 
 would not have desired to love after the fashion 
 of this Englishman ; for had he contented himself 
 with so little he would not have had his notable suc- 
 cesses in love affairs, as the old song says : ' F'aint 
 heart ne'er won fair lady.' " " Trust me," said Saffre-
 
 Day the Sixth. 273 
 
 dent, " the poor lady drew back her hand pretty speedily 
 when she felt how the heart of him was beating; for 
 she thought he might die, and they say there is nothing 
 more hateful to a woman than to touch a dead man." 
 " If you had resorted to the hospitals as much as to the 
 taverns," said Ennasuitte, "you would not talk after 
 this sort, for you would there see wom.en making the 
 dead ready for burial, when men, brave as they may be, 
 dare not touch them." " It is true," said Saffredent, 
 "that any woman, when a penance is laid upon her, 
 will do that most contrary to her inclinations, as was 
 apparent in a lady of a good house who was found at 
 four of the clock one morning kissing the dead body of 
 a gentleman who had been killed the day before, and 
 with whom she had not been at all particular. And 
 this was done by way of satisfaction for past delights, 
 and the pleasure she had taken to kiss a man she 
 loved." " Since every good work done of a woman," 
 said Oisille, " is taken in bad part by man, I am of 
 opinion that, dead or living, there should be no kissing 
 if it be not in accordance with the commandment of 
 God." "As for me," said Hircan, " I care so little for 
 kissing women, save only my wife, that I will agree to 
 whatsoever may be ordained in the matter ; but I pity 
 the young folk from whom you would take away this 
 small contentment, thereby making the commandment 
 of St Paul, who will have us kiss in oscido sancto, of 
 none effect." " If St Paul had been like unto you,'' said 
 Nomerfide, " we should have required most evident 
 signs of the Spirit of God speaking in him." " To the 
 last," said Geburon, "you will rather doubt Holy Writ 
 than forsake one of your petty observances." " May 
 God guard us," said Oisille, " from doubting Holy Writ, 
 
 S
 
 2 74 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 so long as we put small trust in your lies ; for there is 
 no woman who knows not what her belief should be, 
 namely to have no doubt in the word of God, and no 
 faith in the word of man." "Yet do I believe," said 
 Simontault, " that there are more men deceived of 
 women than women deceived of men. For they loving 
 us but a little, put no trust in the truth we tell them ; 
 whilst we, loving them greatly, believe their lies in such 
 sort that we are deceived before we suspect that it is 
 possible." " I hold it great foolishness," said Nomerfide, 
 "for wives to be curiously inquisitive as to their husbands, 
 and in like manner husbands as to their wives. For suffi- 
 cient for the day is the evil thereof, without need to take 
 thought for the morrow." " Yet," said Oisille, " it is 
 sometimes needful to inquire on matters that touch the 
 honour of the house, but this only that order may be 
 taken therewith, and not for the ill-judging of persons, 
 since there is none without fault." " Many an one," said 
 Geburon, " hath fallen into mischance, for want of a 
 curious inquiry into his wife's fault." " I pray you," 
 said Longarine, " if you know of an example thereof, 
 hide it not from us." " One is well known to me," 
 answered Geburon, " and since it is your pleasure I will 
 tell it." 
 
 NOVEL LX. 
 
 How a 7nan^ for putting too great trust in his wife, fell into 
 
 much misery. 
 
 In the town of Paris there lived so good-natured a 
 man, that he would have thought it a sin to believe in 
 the frailty of his wife, though he had seen it with his 
 eyes. And he was married to a very wicked woman,
 
 Day the Sixth. 275 
 
 whose wickedness he never perceived, but treated her 
 as if she were as good as any in the world. But one 
 day, when King Lewis the Twelfth was in Paris, his 
 wife left him for one of the choir-men of the aforesaid 
 prince ; and when the King went away and she could 
 see her lover no more, she determined to forsake her 
 husband and follow him. To this the songman agreed, 
 and took her to a house he had at Blois, where they 
 lived a long while together. The poor husband, finding 
 his wife to have wandered away, sought for her on 
 every side, and at last it was told him that she was with 
 the songman ; and willing to recover his lost sheep, that 
 he had so badly guarded, he wrote her many letters, 
 praying her to return, and saying he would take her 
 back again if she would from henceforth live virtuously. 
 But his wife, who had such delight in the singing of her 
 songman that she had forgotten her husband's voice, 
 made no account of all his kindness, but mocked him ; 
 wherefore he grew angry and let her know that he 
 would get her by the laws ecclesiastical, since in no 
 other way she would return to him. And she, fearing lest 
 if the law should deliver her into his hands, she and her 
 songman would fare badly, devised a plot well worthy 
 of her. And, dissembling sickness, she sent to certain 
 honourable women of the town asking them to visit her, 
 and this they did gladly, hoping through sickness to 
 draw her from her wicked life, and to this intent each 
 one did make unto her most seemly remonstrances. 
 Then she, feigning to be grievously sick, wept and 
 bewailed her sins in such sort that all present had com- 
 passion on her, steadfastly believing that she spoke from 
 the bottom of her heart. And seeing her thus redeemed 
 and repentant, they set them to console her, saying that
 
 276 The Fortnnate Lovers. 
 
 God was not so terrible as the preachers for the most 
 part declared, and that he would never refuse His 
 pity. Thereupon they sent for a good and discreet 
 man to hear her confession ; and on the morrow 
 came the parson to administer the Holy Sacrament, 
 the which she received so devoutly that all the honour- 
 able women of the town who were present wept to 
 see her, praising God that of His goodness He had 
 pity on this poor soul. Afterwards, feigning she could 
 eat no more, the parson gave her extreme unction, 
 which she received with pious signs, since scarcely now 
 could she speak ; for such was her pretence. So she 
 remained a long time, seeming little by little to lose 
 sight, and hearing, and all the other senses, whereat all 
 present fell to crying aloud Jesus ! And since night 
 was near at hand, and the ladies lived afar oft", they all 
 left her, and while they were going from the house 
 it was told them she was gone, and saying a Dc Pro- 
 fundis for her, they returned each one to her own house. 
 The parson inquired of the songman where he would 
 that she should be buried, who answered that she had 
 charged him to bury her in the cemetery, whither it 
 would be good to carry her at night. So the poor 
 wretch was made ready for burial by a servant that took 
 care to do her no hurt, and then with brave torches she 
 was borne to the grave the songman had made. But 
 when the corpse passed before the houses of those 
 women who had been present at the giving of extreme 
 unction, they all came out and followed her to the grave, 
 and soon both priests and women left her with the song- 
 man, who, so soon as he saw the company at some little 
 distance, together with the servant took out of the grave 
 his sweetheart more alive than ever, and brought her
 
 Day the Sixth. 277 
 
 privily to his house, where he kept her a long while in 
 hiding. 
 
 Her husband, who pursued after her, came to Blois 
 and craved justice, and there he found that she was 
 dead and buried in the estimation of all the ladies of 
 the town, who told him the manner of her end. At 
 this the honest man was very glad ; that her soul was 
 in paradise, and he was quit of her wicked body. In 
 this contentment he went back to Paris, where he took 
 to wife a young and pretty woman of good repute and 
 a notable housewife, of Avhom he had several children ; 
 and they lived together for fourteen years and upwards ; 
 but at last Fame, that can keep nothing hid, advertised 
 him his wife was not dead, but alive and with the 
 wicked songman. And the poor man concealed this 
 so long as he was able, dissembling that he knew of 
 it, and desiring to believe it was a lie. But the affair 
 was told to his wife, a discreet woman, and she was so 
 anguished thereat, that she was like to die of grief; and 
 had it been possible for her, with a safe conscience, to 
 hide this mischance, she would willingly have done it, 
 but it was not so, for the bishop's court presently took 
 order with them, and in the first place put them asunder 
 till the whole truth should be known. So was this poor 
 man constrained to eschew the good and ensue the evil, 
 and came to Blois, a little after the coronation of King 
 Francis the First, in the spring of 1515. And there he 
 found Queen Claude and the Regent, before whom 
 he made his plaint, asking her that he would fain have 
 not received ; but needs must he take her, wherefore he 
 was mightily pitied of all the company. And when his 
 wife was brought before him, for a long time she stiffly 
 maintained she was not his wife, the which he would
 
 2 7^ The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 have gladly believed if he could. She, more sad than 
 sorry or ashamed, told him she had rather die than 
 return to him, and this was good news for her poor 
 husband. But the ladies, before whom she made her 
 wicked pleadings, condemned her to return, and used 
 such threats with the songman, that he was forced to tell 
 his mistress, and indeed she was an ugly woman enough, 
 to go back to her husband, since he would have no more 
 commerce with her. So, since she was obliged, the 
 poor wretch returned to her husband, and was more 
 kindly entreated of him than she had deserved. 
 
 " Wherefore I say, ladies, that if this poor man had 
 been more watchful of his wife, he had not lost her, for 
 well-kept is hardly lost, and the occasion makes the 
 thief." " 'Tis a strange thing," said Hircan, " how strong 
 is love when it appears least bottomed on reason." " It 
 hath been told me," said Simontault, " that it were 
 easier to break two marriages, than to sow enmity be- 
 tween a priest and his wench." " I do believe it," said 
 Ennasuitte, "for they that bind others in wedlock, know 
 so well how to tie the knot, that only death can loosen 
 it. Furthermore the doctors maintain spiritual discourse 
 to be above all other, when it follows that spiritual love 
 is the greatest of all." " This thing," said Dagoucin, 
 " I cannot pardon in a lady, to leave a good husband or 
 a sweetheart for a parson, be he never so comely a 
 man." "Prithee, Dagoucin," said Hircan, " intermeddle 
 not with our holy mother the Church, but believe that 
 it is a great delight for poor secret fearful women to sin 
 with men who can absolve them, for there are some 
 who are more ashamed to confess their sins than to 
 commit them." " You speak," said Oisille, " of them 
 that have no knowledge of God, and who do not bethink
 
 Day the Sixth. 279 
 
 them that what is done in secret shall one day be made 
 manifest before the heavenly host. But I do not 
 believe that, for the sake of confession, they intromit 
 with confessors, but rather that they are so blinded of 
 the devil that they have more care for secrecy and a 
 virtuous cloak than for absolution of sins of which they 
 do not repent." " Repent, say you," answered Saffre- 
 dent, " nay, but they esteem themselves holier than 
 other women, and I am sure that some take honour for 
 that they are constant to their lovers." " You speak in 
 such sort," said Oisille to Saffredent, " that methinks 
 you know of some story to the purpose. Wherefore I 
 pray you on the morrow, to begin the day, you will tell 
 us what you know. Rut I hear the last bell ringing for 
 evensong, since the monks went when they had heard 
 our tenth story, and left us to bring our dispute to a 
 close." Thereupon the company arose, and came to the 
 church, where they found the monks waiting for them. 
 And when they had heard evensong, they took supper 
 together, telling many a pleasant tale. Then after 
 supper and their accustomed entertainment in the 
 meadow they went to rest, so as to have the clearer 
 brains for the morrow.
 
 DAY THE SEVENTH. 
 
 ON THE SEVENTH DAY RELATION IS MADE OF THEM THAT HAVE 
 DONE WHAT THEY LEAST DESIRED. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 On the morrow Mistress Oisille failed not to administer 
 to them their wholesome refection, reading from St 
 Luke concerning the acts and deeds of the glorious 
 knights and apostles of Jesus Christ. And she told 
 them that this relation should suffice to make them 
 desire to see such a time, and to bring tears for this 
 degenerate age. And when she had read and suffi- 
 ciently expounded the beginning of this holy Gospel, 
 she entreated them to go to the church, where they 
 should unite their prayers as did the apostles, asking of 
 God his grace, which was never refused to them that 
 craved it faithfully. And as they came into the church 
 the mass of the Holy Ghost was beginning, and this 
 seeming much to the purpose, they heard the service 
 with great devotion. Afterwards they went to dinner, 
 calling again to mind the life apostolical, and took such 
 pleasure therein that their tales were well-nigh forgotten. 
 This Nomerfide, who was the youngest, perceived, and 
 said to them : " Mistress Oisille hath so filled us with 
 devotion that we let the time go by, in the which we are 
 wont to go apart, to make us ready for the telling of our 
 novels." These words made all the company to arise,
 
 Day the Seventh. 281 
 
 and after they had stayed some while in their rooms 
 they went forth into the meadow as they had done on 
 the precedent day, and when they were seated at their 
 ease Oisille said to Safifredent: "Though I be assured 
 that you will say nothing to the advantage of women, 
 yet I must require you to tell the novel that yesterday 
 evening was in your mouth." " I except, mistress," 
 answered Saffredent, " to acquiring the fame of an evil 
 speaker for telling the truth ; nor should I lose the 
 favour of such ladies as are virtuous for recounting the 
 deeds of wantons, for I know what it is to lack the sight 
 of them, and if I was put out of their favour also I could 
 no longer live." So saying he turned his eyes towards 
 her who was the occasion of his weal and woe ; but 
 chancing to look on Ennasuitte, he made her to blush, 
 all as if she had been the one to whom his discourse was 
 addressed, yet none the less was it understood of her 
 to whom it was spoken. And Oisille assured him he 
 could tell the truth freely, let who would bear the 
 blame. Then began Saffredent, and said : 
 
 NOVEL LXI. 
 
 Of the shamefulness and iinpudency of a certain woman who for- 
 sook her husband's house to live witJi a canon. 
 
 Hard-by the town of Autun there dwelt a lady, tall, 
 fair, and of as goodly a feature as I have ever seen. 
 And she was wed to an honest gentleman somewhat 
 younger than herself, who loved and entreated her so 
 well that she had good reason to be satisfied with him. 
 Some space of time after they were married he brought 
 her with him to Autun where he had some business,
 
 282 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 and while he pleaded in the court his wife went to 
 church to pray to God for him. And she resorted so 
 much to this holy place that a rich canon grew in love 
 with her, and paid his suit to such purpose that the 
 poor wretch submitted to him, of which her husband 
 had no suspicion, taking more thought for his substance 
 than for his wife. But when she must needs depart 
 thence and return to her home, seven long leagues from 
 Autun, she grieved sore, though the canon promised he 
 would often come and see her. This he did, feigning 
 to go on a journey, and the road always led past the 
 gentleman's house, and he, not being altogether foolish, 
 perceived his intent, and took such order that when the 
 canon came there he found the wife no more, for the 
 husband made her to bestow herself so secretly that 
 there could be no parley between them. She, not 
 ignorant of her husband's jealousy, gave no sign that it 
 was displeasing to her, natheless she resolved to effect 
 something, for to lose the sight of her divinity seemed 
 to her as hell. So one day, on the which her husband 
 was away from the house, she so dealt with the servants 
 that she was left alone ; and forthwith taking what was 
 needful, and with no fellow save her brainsick rapture, 
 she fared forth on foot to Autun. There she arrived 
 not too late to be recognised of her canon, who kept 
 her privily in his house for better than a year,^ for all 
 the excommunications and citations procured by her 
 
 1 This canon, as the seducer of a married woman, is rightly represented 
 here under an odious light. The odium, however, consisted rather in 
 her adultery than in his priesthood. I quote from Canon Creighton a 
 brief sentence explanatory of the state of the church in France at this time, 
 " In the regulations of the Concordat (between Francis I. and Leo X.), 
 we are surprised by an enactment, which the existing state of the church 
 rendered necessary. Bishops were ordered to proceed against clergy
 
 Day the Seventh. 283 
 
 husband ; and he, having no other remedy, made com- 
 plaint to the bishop, who had as good an archdeacon 
 as there ever was in France. And such dihgent search 
 did he make for her through all the canon's houses that 
 he found her that was lost and clapped her into prison, 
 condemning the canon to a sharp penance. The 
 husband, being advised that by means of the good 
 archdeacon and several other honest folk she was re- 
 covered, was content to take her back on her oath that 
 from henceforth she would live virtuously, which the 
 good man easily believed, for he loved her greatly. 
 And being received again into his house, she was 
 entreated as honourably as afore, save that her husband 
 gave her two ancient bedchamber women, one of whom 
 
 living in open concubinage ; they were to be punished by a suspension for 
 three months, and, if they did not then put away their concubine, by 
 deprivation of their benefice. Bishops were enjoined in the most solemn 
 words to accept no composition for conniving at this irregularity. The 
 ceUbacy of the clergy was in such danger of breaking down that it had to 
 be asserted however incongruously." ("Hist, of the Papacy," vol. iv.) 
 It was all very well to solemnly adjure the bishops ; but in France the 
 celibacy of the clergy was, not as in Italy, a recognized sin, but a dis- 
 regarded conventionality. Nothing could be less like the position of any 
 Roman Cardinal's Giulia or Vannozza, than the social status of (for 
 example) the prudent and virtuous Mme. de Chatillon, who was com- 
 monly reported to be the wife of Cardinal Jean du Bellay. She was con- 
 sidered as respectable as any English bishop's lady. No doubt the 
 political sympathy of France for England in the affair of the divorce of 
 Henry VIII., added its quota to the growing infiltration of Protestant 
 ideas through the Catholic priesthood of France. We know that, so late 
 as the Council of Trent, it was still hoped to reconcile the Huguenots 
 with Rome by the admission of the laity to the communion in two kinds, 
 and the grant of the right of marriage to the priesthood. This plan 
 which seemed good to Catholics so eminent as the Emperor Ferdinand 
 and Queen Catherine de Medici, was supported by the great body of the 
 French bishops. But, for good or evil, Spain carried the day at the 
 Tridentine Council, and Catholicism entered there upon its ultramontane 
 phase.
 
 284 The Forhmate Lovers. 
 
 was always with her. But however kindly he might 
 use her, the wicked love she had for the canon made 
 her deem all rest as torment ; and though she was a 
 mighty pretty woman, and he a strong burly man, of a 
 sanguine complexion, yet they had no children, for her 
 heart was ever seven long leagues from her body. Yet 
 this she dissembled so well that her husband conceived 
 that all that was past was forgotten of her as it was 
 forgiven of him. But when she saw that her husband 
 loved her as greatly as ever, and had no suspicions, 
 she craftily feigned to fall sick, and so persisted in her 
 cozenage that he was exceeding afraid, sparing nothing 
 to succour her. Natheless she played her part so well, 
 that he and all his house thought that she was sick 
 unto death, and growing by slow degrees weaker and 
 weaker ; and she, seeing him to be as sorry as he should 
 have been glad, prayed him to give her authority to 
 make her will, and this he willingly did, weeping the 
 while. And having power to devise, though she had 
 no children, she gave to her husband all that she was 
 able, asking his pardon for her offences against him ; 
 then the parson being come she confessed and received 
 the holy Sacrament of the altar with such devotion that 
 all wept to see so glorious an end. And when it was 
 evening she prayed her husband to send for extreme 
 unction, since she grew so feeble that she scarce hoped 
 to take it alive ; so he sent with all haste for the parson, 
 and she, by her great humility in the reception of it, 
 made all present to praise her. So, having discharged 
 these holy mysteries, she said to her husband, that God 
 having given her grace to receive all the rites of Holy 
 Church, she was so quieted in her mind that she would 
 fain rest awhile, and prayed her husband to do the like,
 
 Day the Seventh. 285 
 
 and indeed with all his weeping and watchings he stood 
 in sore need thereof. And when her husband and all 
 his people with him were gone out, the two old women 
 who had guarded her so long in health, not fearing now 
 to lose her, save by death, went to sleep at their ease. 
 And so soon as she heard them snorins;, she arose in 
 her shift and went out of the room, listening whether 
 any one in the house was stirring ; and having her loins 
 girded and her staff in her hand, she sallied forth by a 
 little garden gate that was not shut, and while it was 
 night, in her shift alone and with bare feet, she made 
 her pilgrimage to the saint at Autun, who could raise 
 her from death to life. But since it was a long journey 
 she could not accomplish the whole space of it before 
 the day began to dawn. Then looking all along the road 
 she saw two horsemen riding furiously, and, thinking it 
 was her husband who sought her out, she hid her body in 
 a marshy place, with her head amidst the rushes, and as 
 her husband chased by he said to his servant, in a 
 maimer of despair : " Alas ! the wicked woman ! Who 
 would have thought that, under the holy sacraments of 
 the Church, she would have concealed so foul and abo- 
 minable a deceit ! " The servant replied : " Since 
 Judas, who received the same bread as she, feared not 
 to betray his Master, do not esteem it a strange thing 
 for a woman to do the like." Then her husband passed 
 on ; and his wife tarried amidst the rushes, more glad 
 to have deceived him than when she esteemed herself 
 as a slave in her good bed at home. The poor husband 
 made search through all the town of Autun, but he per- 
 ceived that of a certainty she was not entered therein, 
 wherefore he went back making great complaint of her 
 and his loss, and threatening her with nothing less than
 
 2 86 The Fo rtii, na te L overs. 
 
 death if he found her. But of this she had no fear in 
 her mind, no more than she had of the cold in her body, 
 though the place and the season should have sufficed to 
 make her repent of this her damnable pilgrimage. And 
 if we knew not how the fire of hell burns up them that 
 are filled with it, we should justly find it a marvellous 
 thing that this wretched woman, coming out of a warm 
 bed, was able to stay a whole day in the bitter cold. 
 Yet she lost not heart for the journey, but so soon as it 
 was night fared forth again upon her way ; and when 
 they were about to shut the gates of Autun this pilgrim 
 arrived there, and went straight to the shrine of her 
 saint, who scarcely was able to believe that it was she, 
 so astonished was he at the sight of her. But when he 
 had assured himself that she was no phantom, from 
 henceforth they were in such good accord that they 
 lived together fourteen or fifteen years. And though 
 for some time she abode with him privily, at last she 
 lost all fear, and worse than this, gloried to have such a 
 sweetheart, so that she set herself in cliurch higher than 
 most of the honest women in the town, the wives of 
 officers and other folk. And by the canon she had 
 children, notably a daughter who was married to a rich 
 merchant, and after so magnificent a sort that all the 
 women in the town murmured at it, but had not autho- 
 rity to take any order in the matter. Now it came to 
 pass that at this time Queen Claude, wife of Francis the 
 First, passed through Autun, having in her following 
 the Regent,^ mother to the King, and also her daughter 
 
 ^ This fixes the date for the year 1524, when Queen Claude was dying, 
 Francis before Pavia, and Louise Regent of France. Margaret had no 
 great love for Claude, whom she describes in the fourth novel of the 
 " rieptameron " as a dull, peevish, and tiresome woman. Claude, with
 
 Day the Seventh. 287 
 
 the Duchess of Alencon. And the Queen had a ser- 
 vant, named Perrette, who came to the aforesaid 
 Duchess, and said to her : " Mistress, hear me, I entreat 
 you, for so you will do better than to go to the service 
 at the church." The Duchess willingly gave ear to her, 
 knowing she would not say aught that was not good, so 
 Perrette forthwith told her how she had taken to her a 
 little girl to help in the washing of the Queen's linen ; 
 and on asking her the news of the town, she spoke as 
 touching the grief of the honest women to see the 
 canon's mistress thus going before them, and made 
 some relation of the woman's life. And the Duchess 
 went presently to the Queen and the Regent, and re- 
 counted to them this history, and they, without any 
 form of law, cited this poor wretch before them, who by 
 no means hid herself away. For her former shame was 
 changed into boasting that she kept the house of so rich 
 a man, and no whit afraid or shamefaced, she came into 
 the presence of the aforesaid ladies, who marvelled at 
 this impudency, so that at first they knew not what to 
 say. But afterwards the Regent remonstrated with her 
 in such sort as should have made a woman of any un- 
 derstanding weep. But she did none of this, and with 
 unspeakable audacity answered them : " I pray you, 
 ladies, touch not mine honour, for, praised be God, I 
 have lived with the canon so honestly and virtuously 
 that no living soul can cast anything in my teeth. And 
 let no one think that I do anything against the will of 
 God, since for these three years past we have dwelt 
 together as chastely and lovingly as two little angels, 
 
 her pure straight profile, neat hair, and shrunk, consumptive shoulders, 
 is a pathetic little figure in that brilliant Court. She had little influence 
 or authority. Her mother-in-law ruled her with harsh severity.
 
 2SS The Fortiniatc Lovers. 
 
 and never a thought nor a word betwixt us to the con- 
 trary. And whosoever shall sunder us will commit a 
 great sin, insomuch as the good man, who is hard on 
 his eightieth year, cannot live without me, who am but 
 forty-five." You cannot conceive what fashion of dis- 
 course the ladies used with her, and the remonstrances 
 which they made ; but for all that her heart was not 
 softened by their words, nor by her own years, nor for 
 the company she was in. And to humiliate her the 
 more they sent for the good archdeacon of Autun, who 
 condemned her to a year's imprisonment on bread and 
 water. Then the ladies sent for her husband, who, by 
 reason of their exhortations, was content to take her back, 
 after that she had performed her penances. But being 
 a prisoner, and advised that the canon was resolved to 
 be altogether quit of her, she thanked the ladies for that 
 they had thrown the devil from her back, and repented 
 her so heartily, that her husband, in place of waiting for 
 a year, came and asked her of the archdeacon in a fort- 
 night, and they lived in perfect peace and contentment 
 ever after. 
 
 " Behold, ladies, how the chains of St Peter are by 
 evil ministers converted to the chains of the devil, and 
 so hardly are they to be broken that the sacraments, 
 which make Satan to flee away, are the means whereby 
 he dwells the longer in their bodies. For the best is that 
 which, when it suffers corruption, becomes the worst." 
 " Truly," said Oisille, " the woman was a wretch, but 
 she was sufficiently punished by coming before such 
 judges as the ladies you have named, since the very 
 look of the Regent was so virtuous, that an honest 
 woman deemed herself unworthy to stand before her 
 eyes, and was afraid. She on whom her regard was
 
 Day the Seventh, 289 
 
 kind took great praise to herself, knowing that this lady- 
 looked on wanton women with but small favour." 
 " This would be goodly work," said Hircan, " that one 
 should have more fear for the eyes of a woman than for 
 the Holy Sacrament, that if it be not received in faith 
 and charity, is for everlasting damnation." " I promise 
 you," answered Parlamente, " that they who have not 
 God in their hearts are more afraid of the powers 
 temporal than spiritual. And I suppose that this poor 
 soul cleansed her ways more for her imprisonment and 
 the loss of the canon than for any remonstrances that 
 were made to her." " Yet you have forgotten," said 
 Simontault, "the efficient cause that made her return to 
 her husband. And this was that the canon was eighty 
 and her husband younger than she, so this good dame 
 came off best in all her battles ; but if the canon had 
 been a young man, she would not have forsaken him. 
 Nor would the reproaches of the ladies have been of 
 more avail than the sacraments she had received." 
 " Yet," said Nomerfide, " she did well, methinks, not to 
 confess her sin too easily, for such offences should be 
 told with all humility to God, and stiffly denied before 
 men ; since, though the accusation be a true one, by 
 force of lying and swearing, some doubt may be 
 engendered in the minds of the judges." " Nathe- 
 less," said Longarine, " a sin cannot be done so secretly 
 that it shall not be revealed, if God do not hide it 
 in them that for love of Him truly repent thereof" 
 "As for perfect constancy," said Hircan, "I maintain 
 'tis an admirable and miraculous chastity." " There is 
 nought of the miracle in it," said Oisille, " for when the 
 heart is entirely addicted, all things are possible to the 
 body." " Ay," said Hircan, " to bodies that have taken 
 
 T
 
 290 The Fortimate Lovers. 
 
 upon them the angelical nature." Oisille replied : " I 
 would not speak of those alone, that by God's grace are 
 all transformed into Him, but of these on this earth who 
 are still within the fleshly tabernacle. And if you make 
 search you shall find that men who have set their hearts 
 and affections on gaining a perfect knowledge of the 
 sciences, have not only forgotten the lust of the flesh, 
 but also such things as are needful, I would say eating 
 and drinking ; hence comes it that they who love 
 comely and virtuous women are so content to behold 
 them and hear them speak, and have their spirits so at 
 rest, that the flesh is voided of all desire. And they 
 who know not such contentment are the carnal, shut up 
 within their own fatness, and ignorant whether they 
 have a soul or no. But when the flesh is subject unto 
 the spirit, a man has no thought for the imperfections of 
 the body, and is, as it were, insensible to them. And I 
 knew a gentleman who, to show that he loved his mis- 
 tress more than any of his fellows, made proof of the 
 same by holding his fingers in the flame of a candle, 
 and, steadfastly looking upon the lady, remained so firm 
 that he was burnt to the bone, and persisted that he had 
 felt no pain." " Methinks," said Geburon, "that the 
 devil, whose martyr he was, should have made a St 
 Lawrence the Less out of him; for there are few so con- 
 sumed by the flame of love that they fear not that of the 
 smallest taper, and if a lady had made me to endure so 
 much for the sake of her, I should have asked a great 
 reward, or put her altogether out of my brain." " You 
 would then," said Parlamente, " have your hour after the 
 lady had had hers; like a certain gentleman of Valencia, 
 in Spain, whose story was told me by an honest captain." 
 *' I pray you," answered Dagoucin, " take my place and
 
 Day the Seventh. 291 
 
 recount the tale to us, for I am assured it will be a 
 pleasant one." " By this history, ladies," said Parla- 
 mente, " you will learn to think twice before you refuse 
 a man, and not to trust that the present time will remain 
 ever as it is, and so, knowing that it is subject to muta- 
 tion, you will take thought for the future." 
 
 NOVEL LXIV. 
 
 A lady delaying to wed her lover, drove him into sucJi inward 
 discotitent that he turned friar, and would Iiavc no more 
 commerce with her. 
 
 In the city of Valencia there lived a gentleman who, 
 for the space of five or six years, had so loved a lady 
 that neither the honour nor the conscience of the one 
 nor the other was wounded ; for his intent was to take 
 her to wife, and he could well do so inasmuch as he was 
 comely, rich, and of a good house. And when he de- 
 clared his love to her he also told her he was minded 
 to agree with her as touching their marriage, and to 
 have the counsel of her kinsfolk on it. And the}-, being 
 gathered together to this end, found the marriage a very 
 reasonable one, provided that the girl was well inclined 
 to it ; but she, either thinking to make a better match, 
 or willing to dissemble her love for him, raised some 
 difficulties, so that the company departed, not without 
 re<7ret, that she had not been able to come to a conclu- 
 sion, for they knew the parties were in every way well 
 suited. But the gentleman sorrowed most of all, for he 
 could have borne the mishap patiently if he had 
 thought that it was the fault of the kinsfolk and not of 
 herself; but knowing the truth, that was worse to him
 
 292 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 than death, without a word to his sweetheart or any 
 other he betook him to his house. And after that he 
 had taken order with his afifairs he went to a sohtary 
 place, where he laboured to forget this love, and turned 
 it all to love of Our Lord, whose due it was. And dur- 
 ing this time he had no tidings of the lady nor her kin, 
 wherefore he was resolved, since he had failed to gain 
 the happiest life he could hope for, to take to himself 
 the most austere and offensive that could be imagined. 
 And with this mournful thought, that was fit to be 
 called despair, he became a monk in a religious house 
 of St. Francis, not far from the dwellings of several of 
 his kinsmen, who, knowing his intent, did all that was 
 in their power to obstruct the same, but it was so stiffly 
 rooted in his heart that no endeavour could turn him 
 from it. Yet, knowing the cause of his sickness, they 
 thought to find the medicine for it, and came to her 
 who was the reason of his sudden devotion. She, 
 mightily astonished and vexed at this mischance, having 
 intended by her refusal only to make trial of his good 
 will and not to lose it for ever, of which latter she was 
 plainly in danger, sent him an epistle, the which, poorly 
 translated, is somewhat as follows : — 
 
 " Since love, if 'tis not proved to be 
 Steadfast and full of loyalty. 
 Is nothing worth ; I did desire 
 To purge thee with assaying fire, 
 And win a love that should endure 
 In constancy, abiding sure 
 Throughout our lives. And thus I say 
 I raised some causes of delay, 
 Before the binding of that chain 
 That lasteth while life doth remain.
 
 Day the Seventh. 293 
 
 "And now, dear sweetheart, thou that wast my all 
 Art passed into the life monastical ; 
 Whereat I sorrow so that I must speak, 
 And by these words the woeful silence break. 
 Come, then, dear love, in whom I have my breath, 
 And losing whom I do but long for death ; 
 Oh, turn thine eyes to me, and come away 
 From cloisteral paths ; leave cord, and cowl, and grey ; 
 And broken slumbers and austerity. 
 So shall thy heart have that felicity 
 Ofttimes desired. For now it is no less 
 Than 'twas before, and I myself address 
 To keep for thee alone this happiness. 
 Oh, then return, and thy true sweetheart wed, 
 That we may lie in one devoted bed. 
 And call to our remembrance yet once more 
 The love delight we two enjoyed afore. 
 Yox this was my desire, I would but try 
 To make more sure thy faith and constancy ; 
 And since these and thy love are plainly shown. 
 Come back, dear love, and make me all thine own." 
 
 This letter, carried by a friend of hers, who made all 
 the remonstrances that were in his power, was received 
 and read of the gentleman friar with so sad a counten- 
 ance and with such sighs and tears, that it seemed as if 
 he would burn and drown the poor epistle. And to it 
 he made no reply, but only said to the messenger that 
 the mortification of his passion had cost him so dear 
 that he had lost all desire of life and fear of death. 
 Wherefore he required her who was the cause of it, since 
 she had not been minded to appease his great love and 
 desire, no more to torment him, but to be content with 
 the evil she had done, for which there was no remedy 
 but to seek out so harsh a life that by continual penance 
 he might forget his grief. And he trusted, through fasts 
 and disciplines, so to weaken his body that the expec-
 
 294 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 tation of death should be to him his sovereign comfort, 
 but above all would have no tidings of her, since the 
 mere thought of her name was purgatory to him. The 
 gentleman returned with this sad reply and bore it to 
 the lady, who grieved sorely at the hearing of it. But 
 love, that will hope unto the last, made her conceive 
 that if she could visit him, sight and speech would avail 
 more than writing, so with her father and those near 
 akin to her she went to the monastery where he was, 
 having neglected nothing that might increase her beauty. 
 For she thought that if he did but once see her and hear 
 her voice, the fire of love that had so long dwelt in his 
 heart would surely be rekindled and burn more ardently 
 than before. So coming into the monastery towards 
 the close of evensong, she sent for him to a chapel by 
 the cloisters, and he, who knew not who desired to see 
 him, went forth to the fiercest fight he had ever been in. 
 And when she saw him thus sallow and lean-looking 
 that he was scarcely to be known, but nevertheless full 
 of no less admirable a grace than afore, love made her 
 stretch forth her arms to embrace him, and pity for the 
 estate he was in so enfeebled her heart that she fell to 
 the ground in a swoon. But the poor monk, who had 
 in him some share of brotherly love, raised her up and 
 set her on a seat in the chapel. And though he stood as 
 much in need of help himself, he feigned to be ignorant 
 of her passion, fortifying his heart with the love of God 
 against the occasions present to him, in such wise that 
 by his face he might be judged not to perceive what 
 was being done under his eyes. And when she was 
 recovered from her swoon, turning those glorious and 
 pitiful eyes upon him with such an aspect as would have 
 softened a rock, she did all she was able to persuade
 
 Day the Seventh. 295 
 
 him to come out from the place where he was. To this 
 he reph"ed very soberly and virtuously ; but at last the 
 heart of the poor monk was so melted by her tears, that 
 he saw Love, the cruel bowman, whose sorrows he had 
 so long borne, holding his gilded arrow ready for the 
 giving a new and a more deadly wound ; and so fled 
 from before Love and his sweetheart as one whose surety 
 was only in flight. And when he was shut up in his 
 cell, not willing to let her go without clearly resolving 
 her, he wrote a few words in the Spanish tongue, which 
 seem to me so goodly in the matter, that, lest I diminish 
 at all the beauty of them, I will leave them untranslated. 
 This message he sent her by a little novice, who found 
 her still in the chapel, and so despairing that if it had 
 been lawful she also would have turned friar. But when 
 she saw the manner of the writing : Volvete don venesti, 
 anima inia, que eii las tristas vidas cs la viia^ she knew 
 that all hope was lost, and determined to follow the 
 counsel of him and her friends, and going home to lead 
 a life as melancholic as that of her lover was austere. 
 
 " You see, ladies, how the gentleman avenged him on 
 his cruel sweetheart, who, thinking to make trial of him, 
 drove him to such despair that when she would have 
 taken him back she could not." " I am sorry," said 
 Nomerfide, " that he would not leave his habit to be 
 betrothed to her, for I think it would have been a perfect 
 marriage." " In good faith," said Simontault, "I account 
 him very wise, for whosoever hath well considered the 
 estate of marriage will find no less trouble in it than in 
 the austerity of a monastical life." " In sooth." said 
 Ennasuitte, "there be many that, upon thinking they 
 
 ^ Return whence thou earnest, O my soul, for amidst the sad lives is 
 my life.
 
 296 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 can do better than their neighbours, do worse, nay rather 
 what is most repugnant to their inclinations." " Verily," 
 said Geburon, " though 'tis not altogether germane to our 
 discourse, you call to my mind the case of a woman who 
 did the contrary to her desires, whence arose a great 
 uproar in the church of St John at Lyon." " I pray you," 
 said Parlamente, " take my place and tell it us." " My 
 tale," answered Geburon, " shall not be so long nor so 
 pitiful as Parlamente's." 
 
 NOVEL LXV. 
 
 A very admirable miracle, which may serve as an example of all 
 
 others. 
 
 In the church of St John at Lyon there is a gloomy 
 chapel, and in it a stone sepulchre to the mighty dead, 
 whose figures are carven on it to the life, and around 
 are men at arms devised as if asleep. And one day, 
 during the heat of summer, a soldier walking about the 
 church was fain to slumber, so, seeing this chapel that 
 it was cool and shady, he was minded to keep guard 
 over the sepulchre like his fellows in arms, amidst whom 
 he laid himself down. Now it came to pass, as he was 
 sleeping most soundly, an old woman, very devout, came 
 thither, and having told her beads with a lighted candle 
 in her hand, desired to fix the same to the sepulchre. 
 And perceiving that the sleeping soldier was nearest to 
 her, she would have set her candle on his forehead, 
 thinking him to be of stone. But the wax not holding 
 to the stone, the good woman, thinking its coldness was 
 the cause, thrust the flame against his forehead, so as to 
 make her taper stick to it. Then did the image, that 
 was not altogether without feeling, begin to cry out,
 
 Day the Seventh. 297 
 
 whereat the old woman was so afraid, that she began to 
 proclaim a miracle, and with such a voice, that all the 
 priests within the church ran, some to ring the bells, and 
 others to see the miracle. And the good woman led 
 them to see the image that had moved, which was to a 
 few a matter for laughter ; but several priests were not 
 so content with this, being determined to make this 
 sepulchre bring them in as many pieces as the speaking 
 crucifix on their pulpit ; but the design came to an end 
 by reason of the old woman's folly being publicly known.^ 
 " If all knew the follies of these devout women, they 
 would not be accounted holy, nor their miracles the 
 truth. And henceforth, ladies, have a care to what 
 saints you give your candles." " 'Tis a great marvel," 
 said Hircan, " that whatsoever they do, women always 
 do ill." "Was this ill done," said Normerfide, "to 
 bring candles to the sepulchre 1 " " Ay," answered 
 Hircan, "inasmuch as she burnt a man's forehead, and 
 no good is to be esteemed good if it be conjoined with 
 evil. And are you of opinion that this woman thought 
 she was offering a brave gift to God by setting up her 
 poor taper ? " Then said Oisille : " I make no account 
 of the worth of the gift, but only of the heart of the 
 giver. Perchance this poor woman had greater love for 
 God than they that give fine torches, since, as it is 
 written in the Gospel, she gave of her penury." " Yet 
 I do not believe," said Saft'redent, "that God, who is 
 sovereign wisdom, can take pleasure in the foolishness 
 of women ; for, notwithstanding that He delights in 
 
 1 The use of fictitious miracles had become so general a means of in- 
 centing to piety, that in 1516 the Lateran Council expressly rebuked the 
 priesthood for countenancing these invented marvels, and cautioned the 
 religious against the testimony of miraculous stories.
 
 298 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 simpleness, I see in the Scripture that He despises the 
 ignorant ; and though we be commanded to be as harm- 
 less as doves, none the less are we charged to be as wise 
 as serpents." "As for me," said Oisille, "I do not deem 
 to be ignorant her who bears her torch or taper before 
 God, making amends for her sins, humbly kneeling 
 upon her knees, with candle in hand, before her Lord, 
 and to Him confessing her unworthiness, craves, with 
 steadfast hope, mercy and salvation." " Would to God," 
 said Dagoucin, " they were all as you, but I do not 
 believe these poor foolish women offer their candles 
 W4th like intent." Oisille replied to him : " They that 
 speak least know most of the love and will of God ; 
 wherefore it is not good to judge any save only one- 
 self" Ennasuitte, laughing, said to her: "'Tis no 
 strange thing to affright a sleeping knave, for women of 
 as low estate have given alarm to great princes, and 
 without the putting of a candle to their foreheads." 
 " I am persuaded," said Geburon, " that you know some 
 history which you would tell us. Wherefore take my 
 place, if such be your pleasure." " My tale shall 
 not be long," said Ennasuitte, " but if I can tell it as it 
 fell out, you shall have no desire to weep." 
 
 NOVEL LXVI. 
 
 A lord and lady were mistaken by an old dame for a protho7iotary 
 and a servant maid, and were sharply reproved of her. 
 
 During the year in which my lord of Vendome 
 espoused the Princess of Navarre,^ the King and Queen, 
 
 ^ Jeanne d'All)ret married Antoine de Bourbon, Due de Vendome, First 
 Prince of the Blood, on the 20th of October 1543. " You never saw so
 
 Day the Seve7ith. 299 
 
 their father and mother, having been feasted at Ven- 
 dome, went into Guienne with them. And visiting; the 
 house of a gentleman, in the which were many fair 
 maids, they danced for so long a time in this good 
 company, that the bridegroom and his bride grew 
 weary, and went to their chamber. There they threw 
 themselves on a couch in their clothes, and slept from 
 sheer fatigue. But in the midst of their slumbers they 
 were awakened by the opening of a door, and my lord 
 of Vendome, drawing the curtain, looked to see who it 
 was, supposing it to be one of his friends endeavouring 
 
 joyous a bride ! " wrote King Henri II. of France ; " she never does any- 
 thing but laugh." It is a matter of history that Margaret opposed the 
 marriage ("You never saw any one cry so much as my aunt," pursues 
 the King), and it was only at the express command of her nephew that 
 she could be induced to sign the marriage contract. Yet there is no sign 
 of bitterness in this novel, which must have been written at a moment 
 when, according to the letters of Henri 11., Margaret was in the extreme 
 of depression : " weeping for her daughter, disliking her son-in-law, at 
 daggers drawn with her husband, and poor — so poor, I don't believe that 
 altogether they keep ten gentlemen-in-waiting." It was by the express 
 permission of the King that Jeanne was allowed to leave Paris to travel 
 to the south with her father and mother. So long as Jeanne remained 
 unwed, the French King feared to trust her from his sight lest her father 
 wed her to a Spanish prince, and she remained in Paris — a necessity 
 which the gay, pretty, and extravagant girl did not regret. l!ut now 
 that Jeanne was Duchess of Vendome, she might be trusted. " I have 
 heard," writes Henri II. to Montmorency, "that the King of Navarre 
 intends to take his daughter with him to Nevers. I have determined to 
 grant them the permission, for, having married their daughter, I think I 
 have a sufficient hostage." , . . Jeanne lived happily with her husband, 
 who fell, at the siege of Rouen, fighting for the Protestant cause. Jeanne 
 still remained so valiant and so important a Huguenot, that the King of 
 Spain used to lay plots to have her kidnapped as she was carried in her 
 litter along the lonely Pyrennean roads. She escaped all these snares, 
 but only to die rather mysteriously in Pans a little before the massacre 
 of Saint Bartholomew. In 1589 her only son ascended the throne of 
 France as Henri IV.
 
 300 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 to take him by surprise. But in the stead thereof he 
 beheld entering in a tall old bed-chamber woman, who 
 for the darkness of the room knew them not, but fell at 
 once to crying : " Ah ! thou nasty wanton girl, 'tis a long 
 time that I have suspected thee for what thou art, but 
 for want of proof have not told my mistress ! Now are 
 thy wanton ways so manifest, that I am determined to 
 cloak them no more. And thou, apostatical wretch, 
 who hast brought such shame upon this house, by lead- 
 ing the poor wench astray, were it not for the fear of 
 God I would beat thee soundly where thou liest. Arise, 
 in the name of the devil, arise, for it seemeth as if there 
 were no shame in thee ! " My lord of Vendome and his 
 Princess, to make this discourse last the longer, hid their 
 faces against one another, and laughed so heartily that 
 they could not speak a word. But the old woman, per- 
 ceiving that for all her threats they would not budge an 
 inch, came near to them to have them iorth by the 
 arms. Then she knew both by their faces and their 
 dress that they were not what she sought for ; and re- 
 cognising them, threw herself on her knees, entreating 
 them to pardon her for disturbing their rest. But my 
 lord of Vendome, willing to learn somewhat more on 
 the matter, arose incontinent, and would have the old 
 woman tell him for whom she had mistaken them. This 
 at first she would not confess, but having obtained their 
 oath never to reveal it, she declared it was a girl of the 
 house, with whom a prothonotary was in love ; and said 
 she had watched them a long while in her displeasure 
 that her mistress put her trust in a man that would 
 bring this shame upon the house. With this she left 
 the Prince and Princess as she had found them, and 
 they were mighty merry over the case. And though
 
 Day the Seventh. 301 
 
 they told the stor}- again, yet they would never name 
 the persons concerned in it. 
 
 "And so the good woman, thinking to execute a 
 righteous judgment, made that manifest to strange 
 princes, of which the servants of the house had never 
 heard a word." " I shrewdly suspect," said Parlamente, 
 " whose house it was, and who was the prothonotary, 
 for he has governed many a lady's house for her, and 
 when he is not able to gain the favour of the mistress, 
 he will have that of her maids ; but, for the rest, he is a 
 good and honest gentleman." " Wherefore say yow for 
 the rest',' said Hircan, " since it is for what you have 
 told of him that I esteem him an honest gentleman .-* " 
 " By this discourse of yours," said Simontault, " it 
 would seem as if men took pleasure in the hearing evil 
 of women, and I am assured that Parlamente will place 
 me among such. Wherefore I desire greatly to speak 
 well of one, that the rest hold me not as an evil 
 speaker." " I give you my place," said Ennasuitte, " but 
 pray you, have your natural disposition under control, 
 so that you may quit you worthily in our honour." 
 Then began Simontault : " 'Tis no new thing, ladies, to 
 hear some virtuous deed of yours, not worthy of forgct- 
 fulness, but rather fit to be written in letters of gold, for 
 an ensample to women, and an admiration to men, see- 
 ing in the weaker vessel that which is repugnant to 
 weakness. Wherefore I tell you this that I have heard 
 from the lips of Captain RobertvaP and from several of 
 his fellowship." 
 
 1 Tean-Franqois de la Roque, Seigneur de Robertval, was not the first 
 of the great sixteenth century discoverers who strove to make a French 
 America to counterpoise the influence of Spain. Canada, discovered in 
 1497 by the Venetian Cabot, was soon turned to account. In 1539, 
 Jacques Cartier sailed up the Saint Lawrence, took possession of the
 
 302 The Fovhmate Lovers. 
 
 NOVEL LXVII. 
 How a woman trusted in God amidst the lions. 
 
 Captain Robertval once made a sea voyage, with 
 certain vessels over which he was set by the King his 
 master, to the island of Canada, where he was deter- 
 mined, if the air of the country should be found whole- 
 some, to abide, and to build towns and mansions ; and 
 as to the beginning he made all men advised of it- 
 And that Christianity might be spread abroad through- 
 out the land, he took with him all manner of mechanics, 
 amongst whom there was one so vile, that he betrayed 
 his master, and put him in danger of being taken by 
 the folk of the country. But God willed that his under- 
 taking was brought to light before any hurt could befall 
 the captain, who made seize this wicked traitor, and 
 would have punished him according as he had deserved. 
 And this had been done were it not for his wife, who, 
 having followed her husband through all the dangers of 
 
 countiy in the name of King Francis I., and called it Nouvelle France. 
 In 1541, Robertval set out to explore the extreme north of Canada, and 
 in 1542 he built the P^ort of Charlebourg. lie established a colony in 
 the Isle Royale. All through the early half of the sixteenth century it 
 was the dearest dream of France and England to outwit Spain and her 
 new world by the discovery of some new treasure countries of their own. 
 I remember several references to this idea in the manuscript letters of 
 the Cardinal du Bellay, preserved in the National Library at Paris. A 
 lutile Austrian impostor was actually despatched by Henry V'lII. to dis- 
 cover some fabulous gold mines in Hungary, which he declared he could 
 secretly excavate for the King. (This was at the time of the alliance with 
 John Zapolya.) And in the same year, 1530, Du Bellay, at a dinner at 
 Hampton Court, having come to angry words with the Spanish Ambas- 
 sador, bade him beware, " lest, if you provoke our King too much by 
 keeping his children from him, we do you a great harm, ' non en 
 Espaigne, en Flandre ou autre certain lieu, mais ez Indes et Arables.'"
 
 Day the Seventh. 303 
 
 the sea, would not leave him to perish, but by her tears 
 and lamentations worked so with the captain and all 
 his company, that as much for pity of her as for the 
 services she had done him, he granted her desire. And 
 this was for the husband and wife to be left on a little 
 island in mid-ocean, where dwelt no people, but only 
 ravening wild beasts ; and it was likewise granted that 
 they should take thither such things as were needful to 
 them. So the poor folk, finding themselves all alone 
 amid the fierce brutes, had no help but in God, who 
 had always been the steadfast hope of the wife ; and 
 she, gaining from Him all her consolation, carried for 
 her safeguard, comfort, and nourishment the New 
 Testament, in which she read without ceasing. And 
 as to temporal affairs, she and her husband laboured to 
 build them as good a house as they were able, and 
 when the lions and other beasts came near to devour 
 them, the husband with his arquebuss, and she with 
 stones, made so stout a defence, that they not only 
 kept them at a distance, but very often killed some 
 that were good provender ; so with such meats and the 
 herbs of the island they lived some time, after their 
 bread had failed them. At length the husband could 
 no more bear with such victuals, and for the water he 
 drank became so swollen that, after a few days, he died, 
 having no servant nor consoler save his wife, who was 
 to him both parson and physician ; thus passed he from 
 that wilderness to the heavenly country. And his poor 
 wife, left alone, buried him in the earth as deeply as 
 she could, but yet the beasts straightway smelt him out 
 and came to devour the flesh of him ; and she in her 
 little hut shot at them with her arquebuss, so that her 
 husband's body should not have such a sepulture. So
 
 304 The Foi'ttmate Lovers. 
 
 living as to her body the life bestial, as to her soul the 
 life angelical, she spent her time in reading of the 
 Scriptures, in prayers and in meditations, having a 
 joyful and contented mind within a body that was 
 shrunken away and nigh amort. But He who never 
 forsaketh His own, and who, when there is no hope in 
 man, showeth His strength, did not allow that the virtue 
 he had set in this woman should be hid from men, but 
 willed rather that it should be made manifest unto His 
 glory. So at the end of some time one of the ships of 
 the armament passing by the island, the folk that were 
 in it saw a smoke that put them in mind of them that 
 had been left there, and they determined to see how 
 God had dealt with them. The poor woman, seeing 
 the ship draw near, went down to the strand, where she 
 was when they came. And after praising God for it, 
 she brought them to her hut, and showed them what 
 manner of victuals she had eaten during her stay ; the 
 which would have passed their belief, had they not 
 known that God can as well feed His servants in a 
 wilderness as at a prince's feast. And since she could 
 not abide in such a place, they took her with them to 
 Rochelle, whither after their voyage they came, and 
 made known to all that dwelt therein her faithfulness 
 and patient long-suffering. And on this account she 
 was received by all the ladies with great honour, and 
 they with goodwill gave her their daughters that she 
 might teach them to read and write. And in this 
 honest craft she earned a livelihood, always exhorting 
 all men to love our Lord and put their trust in Him, 
 setting forth by way of example the great compassion 
 he had shown towards her. 
 
 " Henceforth, ladies, you cannot deny that I laud
 
 Day the Senetith. 305 
 
 and magnify the virtues that God hath placed in you, 
 the which show themselves the more as the subject is 
 of small account." " We are in nowise sorry," said 
 Oisille, " that you praise the grace of our Lord, for in 
 truth all virtue doth come from Him; and the work of 
 man is no more esteemed of God than that of woman, 
 since neither the one nor the other, by their own heart 
 and will, can do anything but plant, and God alone 
 giveth the increase." " If you have well read the Scrip- 
 tures," said Saffredent, " you will know that it is written: 
 ' I have planted and ApoUos watered,' but St Paul 
 sayeth not that women ;have put their hands to the 
 work of God," "You would fain follow," said Parla- 
 mente, " the evil example of them that take the Scrip- 
 ture that is for them, and leave that is against them. 
 If you read St Paul to the end you will find that he 
 commends himself to the ladies who have greatly toiled 
 with him in the work of the Gospel." " Howsoever 
 that may be," said Longarine, " this woman is worthy 
 of all praise, as much for her love for her husband, for 
 whom she put her life in jeopardy, as for her faith in 
 God, who, as we have seen, did by no means forsake 
 her." " As to the first," said Ennasuitte, " I suppose 
 there is no wife here present who, to save the life of her 
 husband, would not do the like." " I do believe," said 
 Parlamentc, " that some husbands are such beastly folk, 
 that their wives should not find it strange to live amidst 
 the beasts." Ennasuitte, taking this to herself, must 
 needs say : " Save in the matter of biting, the company 
 of beasts is as pleasant to me as that of man, who 
 indeed is choleric and hardly to be borne. But still I 
 maintain that, if my husband were to be in such a case, 
 I would not forsake him for the fear of death." . . . 
 
 U
 
 3o6 The Fortiuiaic Lovers. 
 
 "Beware," said Nomcrfide,"of lovini; too much; for make 
 a mock of me as you will, yet to think upon death 
 makes the heart to grow cold, be it never so young." 
 *' I should be of your opinion," said Uagoucin, " had I 
 not heard to the contrary from a princess." "That is 
 to say," said Parlamente, " that she recounted to you 
 some tale. Wherefore, if it be so, I give you my place 
 for the telling of it." And Dagoucin began thus : 
 " This story the Duchess of Alencon, herself related to 
 me. 
 
 NOVEL LXXII. 
 
 The case of a monk and a nun that sinned in the presence 
 
 of the dead. 
 
 In one of the fairest towns in France there is an 
 hospital, well endowed — namely, with a prioress and 
 fifteen or sixteen nuns, and in another part of the build- 
 ing a prior and seven or eight monks. And these day 
 by day sang their offices, and those were content with 
 paternosters and the Hours of Our Lady, since they 
 were altogether occupied in the service of the sick. 
 One day there was a poor man at the point of death, 
 and all the nuns were around him, who, after they had 
 done all that was in their power for his health, sent for 
 one of the monks to confess him. Then seeing he still 
 grew weaker, extreme unction was given him, and little 
 by little he lost the power of speech. But insomuch as 
 he tarried a long time and did not pass, and seemed 
 able to hear them, each of the nuns set herself to speak 
 to him after the best sort she could, whereat at length 
 they grew weary ; and when night was come and he 
 was still alive, one by one they went iiway to bed. And
 
 Day the Srjenth. 307 
 
 there remained, for the making of the body ready for 
 burial, but one of the youngest nuns and a monk, whom 
 she feared more than the prior or any other by reason 
 of the great austerity of his words and life. And when 
 they had duly chanted their hours in the dead man's 
 ear they saw that he was dead, so they made him ready 
 for burial. But in the exercising of this last work of 
 mercy the monk fell to speaking on the miseries of this 
 life and the exceeding happiness of death, and while he 
 discoursed to this effect it struck midnight. The poor 
 girl listened with due attention to his words, and looked 
 on him with tears in her eyes, whereat he took such 
 delight that, speaking of the life to come, he began to 
 embrace her, as if he desired to carry her in his arms to 
 Paradise. She, accounting him for the most devout of 
 all the monks, durst not refuse him, and perceiving 
 this, speaking of God all the while, a sudden tempta- 
 tion overcame him, which surely the devil had of an 
 instant put into his heart ; for before he had never 
 attempted any such thing. And he persuaded her that 
 a sin that is done in secret is not imputed to men by 
 God, that two people with no ties could do no offence 
 in this manner,! \{ there was no scandal, to the avoid- 
 ance of which she must take heed to confess to none 
 but him. So they departed thence, she going first ; 
 and passing through the Lady Chapel, she would say 
 her prayers therein, as she was wont. J^ut when she 
 
 ' This is very characteristic of the sixteenth century, when the cliilil of 
 two unmarried persons suffered but sliglit disgrace for his hirtli if the 
 parents were single. The breaking of the tie of marriage was accounted 
 a far more grievous sin. This, which is proved by Acts of Legitimacy ami 
 other records, is also appaient in the frivolous talk of the " Ileptameron." 
 Kven llircan and Saffredent, the choice apologists of rakes, enjoin fidelity 
 in marriage.
 
 3o8 The Fortunate Lovers. 
 
 began : " Virgin Mary," she remembered that she had 
 lost, on no love nor compulsion, but through a foolish 
 fear, the style and title of virginity, and so bitterly did 
 she weep that it seemed as though her heart would 
 break. The monk, hearing the noise of her lamenta- 
 tion from afar, feared lest she was converted, and coming 
 to her found her with her face to the ground before Our 
 Lady. Therefore he sharply rebuked her, and said 
 that if she made it a matter of conscience, she might 
 confess to him, and be quit of him if she would ; for 
 one way or the other there was no sin. 
 
 The foolish nun, thinking to make satisfaction before 
 God, went to confession, but for penance he only swore 
 that she sinned not at all to love him, and such a petty 
 fault could be washed away with holy water. She, 
 trusting more in him than in God, returned at the end 
 of some time to his obedience, in such sort that she 
 became great with child. At this sorely vexed, she 
 prayed the prioress to drive away the monk from the 
 convent, since he was so crafty that he would not fail 
 to seduce her. The prior and the prioress, who dwelt 
 in good accord together, made a mock of her, telling 
 her she was big enough to defend herself against a man, 
 and that he of whom she spoke was too devout to do 
 such a deed. At last, driven by the gnawing of her 
 conscience, she craved leave of them to go to Rome, for 
 she thought, if she could but confess her sins at the feet 
 of the Pope, her maidenhead would come back to her. 
 This the prior and the prioress granted her with a good 
 will, for they had rather that against their rule she 
 should go on a pilgrimage, than continue within the 
 convent with her present scruples. And they feared 
 also lest in her despair she should blaze abroad the life
 
 Day the Seventh. 309 
 
 that was led in the convent, and so he gave her money 
 for her journey. But God willed that she should be in 
 the rood-gallery of the church of St John at Lyon, after 
 evensong ; and there was also in the church the Duchess 
 of Alen^on, who was afterwards Queen of Navarre, who 
 was privily performing a nine days' devotion, having 
 with her three or four of her women.^ And she, kneel- 
 ing on her knees before the rood, heard some one 
 mounting the stair to the loft, and by the light of the 
 lamp perceived that it was a nun. And to the end 
 that she might hear her devotions the Duchess with- 
 drew herself to a dark corner hard-by the altar. But 
 the nun, who thought she was alone, fell on her knees, 
 and beating her breast, wept so that it was pitiful to 
 hear her, crying all the while : " My God, my God, 
 have mercy upon me a sinner!" The Duchess, so as 
 to come at the root of the matter, drew near to her and 
 said : " Sweetheart, what ails you, and whence come 
 you, and what brings you hither?" The poor nun, 
 who knew her not, answered and said : " Alas, sweet- 
 heart, so great is my woe that I look to God alone, and 
 pray Him to grant me the means of speaking to the 
 Duchess of Alencon, since I am assured if there be cure 
 for my sickness she will find it out." " Sweetheart," 
 said the Duchess, " 3'ou may speak to me as to her, for 
 I am of her most familiar acquaintance." " Nay," said 
 the nun, " no other than she shall be advertised of my 
 secret." Then the Duchess told her that she might 
 speak freely, since she had found that she sought for ; 
 
 1 Margaret first came to Lyons in 1524. There died Queen Claude, 
 and there, in the April of next year, the unfortunate Duke of Alencon. 
 It was for him, perchance, that Margaret was performing her Novena, 
 when she overheard the agony of the unhappy nun.
 
 3IO The Fortwiatc Lovers. 
 
 and the poor woman threw herself at her feet, and told 
 her the whole matter, as }'ou have heard it, and how 
 she fell into her mischance. The Duchess comforted 
 her so well that she still left her a continual repentance 
 for her sin ; but put out of her brain the intent to go to 
 Rome. And so she sent her back to her priory with 
 letters to the bishop of the diocese charging him to 
 drive away that shameful monk. 
 
 [Here end the Novels of the late Queen of Navarre, 
 since no more of them can be found.]
 
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