‘Since it was I who told the last story yesterday, it’s up to me to choose who should start today. And since Madame Oisille, being the oldest and wisest, was the first woman to speak, today I shall choose the youngest (I do not say the most foolish), for I’m sure that if we all follow her example, we shan’t hold up vespers as long as we did yesterday. Well then, Nomerfide, here is your opportunity to join the ranks of the eloquent – but please don’t make us cry right at the beginning of our second day!’
‘No need to make a special request,’ replied Nomerfide, ‘because one of the ladies told me a story last night which has stuck in my mind, and I couldn’t tell another even if I tried. If this one makes you feel sad, you must have a very melancholy disposition indeed!’
STORY ELEVEN
In the household of Madame de La Trémoïlle there was a lady by the name of Roncex. One day she was visiting the Franciscan house at Thouars, and felt a sudden need to go where you can’t send your servant for you. For company she asked a girl called La Mothe to go with her, but for the sake of privacy and modesty she left her in a room nearby, and went on her own into the privy, which was very dark. It was the place used by all the Franciscans, and all over the seat and everywhere else there was ample evidence that Franciscan bellies had been doing justice to the fruits of Bacchus and Ceres. Well, this poor lady, who was already in such a hurry that she scarcely had time to lift her skirts, went and sat down on the filthiest and dirtiest seat in the whole place. She stuck to it as if held on by glue! Her poor buttocks, her clothes, her feet, everything was in such a disgusting mess that she didn’t dare take a step to one side or the other, for fear of even worse. So she started to scream for all she was worth.
‘La Mothe! La Mothe!’ she cried, ‘I am undone, I am dishonoured!’ The poor girl, who had heard plenty of stories about the vile behaviour of the Franciscans, thought that some of them must have been lying in wait, and that they must be trying to rape Madame de Roncex. So she ran to her aid as fast as her legs would carry her, shouting to everyone she met: ‘Help! Help! The friars are trying to rape Madame de Roncex in the privy!’
Everyone dashed to the scene, only to find the wretched Madame de Roncex standing there, bottom bare lest her gown should be soiled, and shrieking for one of her women to come and clean her up. A splendid spectacle for the men who had come running to her rescue! And the only trace of a Franciscan was the filth stuck to the poor lady’s behind! Needless to say it was all very amusing for the gentlemen, but somewhat humiliating for the lady, who after all had been expecting her women to run along to help her get clean. Instead there was a crowd of men to do her bidding, and there was she, exposed in the worst condition a woman could ever appear in! Immediately she saw them she let her skirts fall to cover herself up, thereby dirtying what little of her attire had remained clean. She quite forgot the filthy state she was in, so ashamed was she at the sight of the men. When she eventually managed to get out of the disgusting place, she had to be stripped naked and have all her clothes changed before she could leave the monastery. She felt very much inclined to be angry with La Mothe for bringing assistance in the way she had, but when she heard that the girl had thought there had been even worse things afoot, she forgot her anger, and laughed with the rest.
*
‘Well, Ladies, I don’t think that my story was either very long or very melancholy! So you’ve had what you expected!’
Thereupon her audience burst into peals of laughter, and Oisille said: ‘It was a rather dirty story, but when one knows the people involved, one cannot really object to it. How I would have loved to see La Mothe’s face – and the face of the lady she tried to rescue! Anyway, as you’ve finished so quickly, Nomerfide, will you choose us a new storyteller – someone perhaps who won’t be quite so frivolous?’
‘If you want me to make up for my naughtiness,’ said Nomerfide, ‘I think I shall choose Dagoucin, who’s so wise and good that he would never for the life of him allow anything bad or foolish to pass his lips!’
Dagoucin thanked her for her high opinion of his good sense, and began.
‘The story I have decided to tell you is to show you how love can blind even the greatest and most honourable of men, and how hard it is to overcome wickedness by means of kindness and generosity.’
STORY TWELVE
Ten years ago there was in Florence a Duke of the house of Medici who was married to Madame Marguerite, the natural daughter of the Emperor. Now, Madame Marguerite was still very young at that time, so young in fact that the Duke could not lawfully sleep with her until she was of a mature age. He treated her very gently, and to spare her, he pursued several love-affairs with women in the town, whom he visited at night while his wife was sleeping. Amongst these women there was one in particular with whom he was infatuated – a very beautiful woman, who was also virtuous and good. This lady happened to be the sister of a gentleman had been given such authority in the ducal household that his orders were obeyed and respected as if they came from the Duke in person. None of the Duke’s secrets were hidden from him. He was told everything. He was in fact almost the Duke’s second self.
The Duke realized that the gentleman’s sister was a woman of virtue, and, after doing his utmost to find an opportunity, came to the conclusion that there was no way of declaring his love to her directly. So he addressed himself to her brother, the very same man who was his favourite.
‘My good friend,’ he said to him, ‘there’s nothing in the world that I wouldn’t gladly do for you: if it were otherwise I should never dare to come to you and reveal what is in my mind, even less ask you to help me. But, as you know, I am extremely fond of you, and if I had a wife or a daughter who was in a position, as it were, to save your life, I would certainly let her serve you, rather than see you die in torment. I am sure that you feel the same way about me as I do about you. If I, as your master, bear you such affection, then, surely, to say the least, you can’t feel less for me? So I am going to tell you a secret. I have kept it hidden for too long, and that is why you now see me in the state I am in. Death is the only hope for me, unless you agree to do me the service I am about to ask.’
The gentleman was moved to pity by the way his master pleaded, and by the unfeigned emotion on his tear-stained face.
‘My lord, I am your creature. All that I have, all that I am in this world has come from you. You may speak to me as you would speak to your own soul, for you may be assured that whatever is in my power to perform shall be performed.’
So the Duke started to tell him how he was in love with his sister, and how his love was so deep and so strong that if his friend did not make it possible for him to enjoy her favours, then he could not see how he could go on living. He knew that gifts and entreaties would be of no avail, therefore he begged that if he cared for his master’s life as he cared for his own, he would procure him the means of obtaining that which otherwise would be for ever beyond his grasp. But the brother had more concern for his sister’s honour, and for that of his family name, than for the Duke’s pleasures. He protested, and implored the Duke to use him for anything, but not to so callously take advantage of him as to force him to bring dishonour upon his own lineage. His honour, his heart, the very blood that flowed in his veins prevented him from lending himself to such a service. The Duke blazed with unbearable rage. He bit his nails in his wrath.
‘So be it then!’ he stormed. ‘Since you are not my friend, I know what I have to do!’
Knowing what a ruthless man his master was, the gentleman, terrified, replied: ‘My Lord, if it is your wish, then I will speak with her and bring you her reply.’
Whereupon the Duke walked out, saying: ‘Take care for my life, and I will do the same for you.’
The gentleman understood well what this meant. For a day or two he saw nothing of the Duke, and wrestled alone with the dilemma before him. On the one hand he was aware of the strength of the obligations he owed to his master for all the honours and material benef
its he had received from him. On the other hand, there was the honour of his family name, the chastity of his sister. He knew that she would never consent to sink to such vice, unless she were somehow tricked into it or taken by force – an eventuality so monstrous that it would bring down infamy on himself and his whole family for the rest of time. Thus torn, he came to the conclusion that he would die rather than submit his sister, one of the most virtuous women in all Italy, to anything so vile, and that his duty was to rid his homeland of this tyrant who was bent on forcing disgrace upon his family name. He was convinced that if he did not remove the Duke, neither his own life nor the lives of those dear to him could be guaranteed. So, without breathing a word to his sister, or to anybody else, he made up his mind to save her life and avenge her honour at a single stroke.
When two days were up, he came back to the Duke, and told him that he had been successful in winning his sister round, that she had in the end agreed to do the Duke’s bidding, provided that the affair was kept secret and that no one else but he, her brother, should know about it.
The Duke, only too anxious to believe this story, did not doubt it for one moment. He embraced the messenger who had brought him such good tidings, and promised him everything he could ask for. He begged him to bring his plan to fruition as speedily as possible, and together they arranged the time and the place. Needless to say the Duke was overjoyed.
On the day of the assignation, as the long-awaited night drew nigh when he would conquer her whom he had deemed unconquerable, the Duke retired early, accompanied only by the gentleman. He prepared himself with the utmost care, choosing his accoutrement for the occasion from amongst his most sweetly scented shirts and headgear. When everyone else had retired for the night, the Duke was taken to where the lady lived, and shown into an imposingly appointed bedchamber. There the gentleman helped him undress and get into bed, saying:
‘My Lord, I shall now go to fetch a virtuous lady who will not enter this room without blushing, but before the morning I hope that she will be reassured.’
Leaving the Duke in the bedchamber, the gentleman went into his own room. There was still one servant who had not retired to bed, and to this one man the gentleman said: ‘Are you bold enough to come with me? I am about to avenge myself of the greatest enemy I have in this world.’
‘Certainly, Monsieur, even if it were the Duke himself!’ replied the man, who knew nothing of what was afoot. Without more ado the gentleman led him out of the room, giving him time to collect no weapon other than a dagger which he had.
The Duke heard their footsteps, and, thinking it was the lady he loved, he opened his eyes and drew back the bed-curtains, so that he might gaze upon his heart’s desire and take her in his arms. What he saw was not his lady, but the gentleman’s naked sword, not the preserver of his life, but the precipitator of his death. The gentleman struck him as he lay there in his nightshirt. Unarmed the Duke may have been, but his courage did not fail him. Raising himself up in bed, he seized his assailant about the body, saying: ‘So this is the way you keep your promises?’
Fighting tooth and nail, for these were his only arms, the Duke sank his teeth into the gentleman’s thumb, and struggled with all his might until they both fell to the ground at the side of the bed. The gentleman, uncertain now of his advantage, called out to his manservant, who ran in to find them so closely locked together that he could not make out who was who. He grabbed a pair of feet and dragged the two men, still grappling with one another, into the middle of the room. He then set to with his dagger, cutting the Duke’s throat. The Duke fought back until loss of blood robbed him of his strength and he could struggle no more. The gentleman and the servant then lifted him back on to the bed, finished him off with their daggers, drew the curtains once again, locked the door behind them and left the corpse lying there.
Now that he was victorious over his mortal enemy, by whose death he hoped to set the state free, he began to think that his mission would be incomplete if he did not also dispatch the five or six men who had been close to the Duke. To this end, he gave orders to his manservant to fetch them all one by one, so that he might deal with them in the same way as he had dealt with their master. But the servant was a man of caution, neither foolhardy nor excessive in valour, and he replied:
‘Monsieur, it seems to me that you’ve done enough for the time being, and that you’d do better to think about saving your own life than about taking still more. If we took as long to get rid of them as we did to get rid of the Duke, daylight would be upon us, and we’d be found out before we’d finished, even if we found our victims unarmed.’
The gentleman, with his crime fresh on his conscience, was nervous, and readily accepted this piece of advice. So, taking his servant with him, he made his way to the house of the Bishop, who had charge of the opening of the town gates and also had command over the post-horses.
‘I have this evening received news that my brother is at the brink of death,’ said the gentleman to the Bishop. ‘I have just taken my leave of the Duke, and he has granted my request. I now ask you to give instructions to the posts to provide me with two good horses, and to instruct the gatekeeper to open the gates of the town.’
To the Bishop this request was as good as an order from his master the Duke himself, and he at once gave to the gentleman a pass which would guarantee two horses and unhindered passage through the town gates, just as he demanded. Once out of the town, instead of going to see his brother, he made his way to Venice, where he had the bites which he had received from the Duke treated, and thence to Turkey.
When the Duke failed to appear the next morning, his servants suspected that he had been to visit some lady. But later, when he still had not returned, they went out to search for him. The poor Duchess, who was beginning to love him dearly, was in great distress when she learned that he could not be found. As soon as it was realized that the gentleman who was the Duke’s favourite had not been seen either, they went to look for him at his house. They found traces of blood at the chamber door, but no man or servant in the house could give any explanation. Following the blood stains, the Duke’s miserable servants came to the door of the room where the murdered man was lying. The door was locked, but they broke it down. Seeing the whole place covered in blood, they drew back the bed-curtains and found the Duke’s wretched body lying on the bed in the sleep of eternal rest. Picture to yourselves the grief of these servants as they carried the corpse back to the ducal palace, where the Bishop arrived to explain how the gentleman had made off post-haste during the night under pretext of visiting a sick brother. It was clear to everyone that it was the gentleman himself who was responsible for the murder. It was also evident that his sister had known nothing at all about it. She was horrified by what had happened, but loved her brother the more for having delivered her from a prince who was so cruel a foe. She continued her life of virtue, and grew in honour. Indeed, although the family house was confiscated and she was reduced to poverty, both she and her sister found husbands who were amongst the richest and most honourable men who ever lived in Italy. And ever after they enjoyed the highest esteem throughout the land.
*
‘And so, Ladies, here we have a story that should make you truly fear that little god who delights in tormenting princes and poor alike, the mighty as much as the weak, and who blinds all men till they forget their God, their conscience and in the end their own lives. Princes, and all who have authority, should beware of offending those beneath them. For, when God desires to take vengeance on the sinner, there is no man [so humble] that he cannot inflict hurt, and no man so high that he has all power to harm those who are in God’s charge.’
Everyone had listened attentively to Dagoucin’s story. But it was a story that engendered diverse opinions. For some, the gentleman had clearly done his duty in saving his sister’s life and honour, and in ridding his homeland of a tyrant by the same stroke. Others, however, did not agree. They said that it was the height of ingratitude fo
r the gentleman to murder the very man from whom he had received such honour and advancement. The ladies said that he was a good brother and a virtuous citizen. The men, taking the contrary view, insisted that he was a traitor and a bad servant. It was most interesting to hear the arguments that each side advanced. But the ladies, as is their wont, spoke as much from passion as from reason, claiming that the Duke was so deserving of death that the man who had slain him was blessed indeed. Dagoucin, seeing that he had provoked such a heated debate, said:
‘Do not, I beg you, Ladies, enter into dispute over something that is now long past, but take heed lest your beauty cause suffering a thousand times more cruel than the death that I have just described.’
‘We learn from La belle dame sans mercy,’ commented Parlamente, ‘that “A malady so gracious, Ne’er put a man to death”.’*
‘I pray God, Madame,’ replied Dagoucin, ‘that all the ladies here realize how erroneous that view is! I truly believe that they do not desire to be referred to as “sans mercy”, or to be likened to that fair lady of little faith who allowed her devoted servant to die for want of a kind and compassionate word.’
‘So,’ retorted Parlamente, ‘in order to save the life of some man who claims to be in love with one of us, you want us women to put in peril both our honour and our conscience?’
‘That is not what I said,’ replied Dagoucin, ‘for a man who loved perfectly would be even more afraid of wounding his lady’s honour than would the lady herself. It seems to me, therefore, that a kind, compassionate and honourable response, such as perfect and noble love calls for, can only enhance one’s honour and purify one’s conscience. Any man who seeks the contrary is not a true servant of his lady.’
The Heptameron Page 17
