The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Oisille, ‘that is not a reasonable excuse for a woman to take vengeance for her husband’s suspicions at the expense of her own honour. It is like running oneself through with one’s own sword because one can’t kill one’s enemy, or like biting one’s own fingers because one can’t scratch one’s opponent’s face. She would have done better not to speak to the friend, so that she could demonstrate to her husband how unjust he was to suspect her. Then, in time, they would both have been appeased.’

  ‘But she did show she was a woman of character by the way she acted,’ said Ennasuite, ‘and if more women acted in the same way their husbands would not be as offensive as they are.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said Longarine, ‘it is long-suffering that in the end makes women victorious and chastity which makes them worthy to be praised. There we must stop.’

  ‘But,’ Ennasuite went on, ‘women can be unchaste without sin.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Oisille.

  ‘If a woman were to mistake someone else for her husband,’ replied Ennasuite.

  ‘She would be a fool,’ said Parlamente, ‘if she didn’t know the difference between her husband and some other man, however well he might be disguised.’

  ‘There have been some in the past, and no doubt there’ll be some in the future, who have been deceived, while remaining innocent and not guilty of any sin.’

  ‘If you know of a case of this kind,’ said Dagoucin, ‘then I invite you to tell the next story, because I find it very strange to think that sin and innocence can exist together.’

  ‘Well, listen,’ said Ennasuite. ‘In case, Ladies, the tales you have already heard have not warned you sufficiently that it is dangerous to give lodging in one’s own home to those men who call us worldly while regarding themselves as saintly and superior, I have decided to offer yet another example. We’re always hearing about the mistakes people make when they trust these people too much, and I would like to recount a tale about them that will show you that not only are they ordinary men like all the others, but that there’s also something diabolical about them which goes beyond the ordinary wickedness of men.’

  STORY FORTY-EIGHT

  At a village inn somewhere in the Périgord a wedding feast was being held for a girl of the household, and all the friends and relations were doing their best to enjoy themselves as much as possible. During the festivities two Franciscans appeared, and as it did not suit their status to join in the wedding celebrations, they were given supper in their room. However, the leader of the pair, who not only had more authority but also more inclination to evil, thought to himself that since he was being kept separate from the feast he would show them one of the tricks of his trade and help himself to a share in the bridal bed! When evening came and the guests started dancing, the friar had a long look at the bride through the window and found her very beautiful and very much to his taste. He carefully inquired of the chambermaids which room she was to sleep in, and discovered to his delight that it was quite near to his own. He kept a close watch until he saw the bride quietly leave the gathering, led away by the old women, as is the custom. Because it was still very early the husband preferred not to leave the dancing, which he was so much enjoying that he seemed to have forgotten all about his wife. But the friar hadn’t. As soon as he heard that the bride had climbed into bed, he stripped off his grey habit and went to take the place of the bridegroom. But he was afraid of being caught, and had not been in bed very long before he jumped out and ran to the end of the passage, where his companion was keeping watch for him. Having been given the sign that the husband was still dancing, the Franciscan, who had not yet had time to satisfy his evil desires properly, ran back and got into bed again with the bride. There he intended to stay till his companion gave him the sign to leave. Eventually the husband came to bed. His wife, who had already been so tormented by the friar that all she wanted was a little rest, could not restrain herself from saying: ‘Have you decided not to go to sleep at all and to do nothing but torment me?’

  The poor husband, who had only just arrived, was somewhat taken aback, and asked her what she meant, since he had been dancing all evening. ‘Dancing!’ said the poor girl. ‘What a way to dance! This is the third time you’ve come to bed tonight! I think it’d be better if you went to sleep!’

  The husband was amazed at this, and forgetting everything else, insisted on finding out the truth of the matter. When he had heard the whole story, he suspected immediately that it was the Franciscans who had been given rooms at the inn. He got up at once and rushed into their room, only to find that they had disappeared. He shouted for help at the top of his voice. His friends came flocking round, and when they had heard what had happened they all went off to search for the friars with candles, lanterns and all the dogs of the village. When they did not find them in any of the houses, they searched and searched until they caught them in the vineyards. There they gave them what they deserved. They beat them, cut off their arms and legs, and left them in the vines in the care of Bacchus and Venus, for they were better disciples of the god of wine and goddess of love than of Saint Francis.

  *

  ‘Now don’t be surprised, Ladies, that people like this, who are cut off from ordinary life, do things that any brigand would be ashamed of. In fact, we should be surprised that they don’t do far worse things, when God withdraws his guiding hand from them. It’s far from the truth to say that the habit makes the monk; on the contrary, they become so arrogant because of it that it often unmakes them. For myself, I prefer the sort of piety preached by Saint James: to have a heart pure and undefiled before God, and to do all in one’s power to be charitable to one’s neighbour.’

  ‘Merciful God!’ exclaimed Oisille. ‘Shall we never cease hearing stories about these tiresome Franciscans?’

  ‘If princes, noble ladies and gentlemen are not spared in our stories,’ said Ennasuite, ‘it seems to me that the Franciscans should feel honoured that anyone deigns to talk about them at all. They’re so useless that no one would ever mention them if they didn’t do noteworthy deeds of evil, for it’s better, so it’s said, to do evil deeds than to do nothing at all! And the more variety we have, the better our bouquet of stories.’

  ‘Well, if you all promise,’ said Hircan, ‘not to be angry with me, I’ll tell you a story about a certain lady of high birth – a story so scandalous that you’ll be only too ready to excuse that poor Franciscan for satisfying his needs when he could. For the lady I’m going to tell you about had, unlike the friar, quite enough to satisfy her appetite, but indulged herself in illicit morsels in the most disreputable fashion!’

  ‘We have all sworn to tell the truth,’ said Oisille, ‘and we have sworn also to listen. Therefore you may speak freely, for when we recount the evil doings of the men and women in our stories, we are not doing it in order to bring shame upon individuals, but in order to remove the esteem [and] trust placed in the mere creatures of God, by means of displaying the sorrows to which those creatures are subject, to the end that our hope may come to rest upon Him who alone is perfect and without whom all men are but imperfection.’

  ‘Well then,’ replied Hircan, ‘I shan’t be afraid to tell you my story.’

  STORY FORTY-NINE

  At the court of King Charles – I won’t say which Charles for the sake of the honour of the lady in question, nor will I refer to the lady in question by her real name – there was a certain Countess. She came from a high-ranking family, but she was foreign. People are always attracted by novelties, and when this lady first arrived they could not take their eyes off her, partly because the style of her clothes was new to them and partly because their magnificence betokened great wealth. Not that she was one of the most beautiful women in the world, but she had a certain grace combined with the most disdainful manner you can imagine, and a manner of speaking so dignified and overbearing that there was nobody at court who was not afraid of addressing her – with the exception o
f the King who was extremely fond of her. So that he could have her to himself he sent her husband, the Count, on some piece of business which kept him absent for a considerable length of time. Meanwhile the King enjoyed himself with the Countess. Now there were several gentlemen in the King’s service who knew that the King was receiving her favours, and they made bold to approach her themselves, One of these was called Astillon, a man of fine bearing and fearless temperament. Her first reaction to him was to stand on her dignity and threaten to tell the King. But the fiercest warrior on earth would not have intimidated Astillon, and he persisted until she eventually agreed to see him alone and told him the best way of getting into her room. He followed her instructions, but so that the King would not suspect anything, he first of all asked him for leave of absence. So he made his departure from the court, but left his attendants after the first day and returned by night to receive the favours that the Countess had promised him. She kept her word, and Astillon was so satisfied that he was content to stay there for [seven or eight] whole days, shut up in her dressing-room and living on nothing but light, nourishing food. During the course of the week one of his companions, a man by the name of Durassier, also came along to make advances to the Countess. She started off in exactly the same way as before, with a brusque and disdainful rebuff, only to soften as the days went by. And on the day she dismissed her first prisoner, she duly installed a second one to serve her in his place. And while he was there, a third one came along – this time a man called Valnebon – and went through the same ritual as the first two. And after them two or three more came along and did their spell in this far from unpleasant captivity. This went on for some time, and the Countess managed it so shrewdly, that none of the men knew anything at all about the others. They each knew of course that all the others were equally enamoured, but each one of them thought that he was the only one to have his wishes granted, and each one secretly laughed at the others for having failed to win such a prize.

  One day, however, these gentlemen happened to be together enjoying themselves at a banquet, and the conversation turned to their adventures and experiences as prisoners during the wars. Valnebon had been finding it unbearable to keep quiet all this time about his good fortune and could not resist saying to the others:

  ‘I don’t know what it’s like in the prisons you were in, but for my part, I liked so much being in one of the prisons I was in that I shall for the rest of my days have nothing but praise for all the rest. I think there’s no pleasure in the whole world that comes anywhere near the pleasure of being a prisoner!’

  But Astillon, who had been the first of the ‘prisoners’, had a good idea what ‘prison’ he was talking about, and replied:

  ‘Valnebon, who was this gaoler who gave you such good treatment that you actually liked being in prison?’

  And Valnebon replied: ‘Whoever the gaoler was, the prison was so enjoyable that I wish I could have stayed there longer, because I’ve never been so well treated, and never more satisfied!’

  Now Durassier, not normally a very talkative man, [strongly suspecting] that they were referring to the ‘prison’ that he too had been in, said to Valnebon: ‘What sort of food did you receive in this prison which you praise so highly?’

  ‘What sort of food?’ answered Valnebon. ‘The King himself doesn’t have anything better, nor anything more nourishing!’

  ‘But I still need to know,’ said Durassier, ‘if the person who kept you prisoner made you work for your bread?’

  Valnebon guessed that they had seen through him, and could not stop himself bursting out with an oath: ‘God Almighty! Could it be that I’ve had comrades in this? I thought I was the only one!’

  Seeing that here was a dispute in which he was as much involved as the others, Astillon laughed and said: ‘We all of us serve the same master. We’ve been friends and comrades since our youth. So if we are now comrades in this [misfortune], then we should find cause for laughter. But in order to be sure that what I suspect is true, I ask your permission to put some questions and request that you confess the truth. For if what I believe has happened to us really has happened, then I think it will make one of the funniest stories you could find within a thousand leagues!’

  So they all swore they would tell the truth, if it turned out that it could not be denied.

  ‘I will tell you what happened to me,’ said Astillon, ‘and you will say whether or not the same thing happened to you.’

  They all agreed on this, and Astillon said: ‘I asked the King for leave of absence.’

  ‘We did the same!’ responded the others.

  ‘Then, when I was a couple of leagues away from court, I left my attendants and went to give myself up as prisoner.’

  ‘We did exactly the same!’

  ‘I stayed about seven or eight days, I slept in a dressing-room, and I was given nothing but light, nourishing food to eat and other things to consume, the best I’ve ever tasted. When the week was up my gaoler let me go, and I left a good deal weaker than when I’d arrived!’

  They declared, every one of them, that the same had happened to them.

  ‘And my spell in this prison started on such-and-such a day, and I was released on such-and-such a day,’ said Astillon, naming the day on which he was released.

  ‘I started my stretch on exactly the day you finished,’ said Durassier, ‘and stayed till such-and-such a day!’

  Valnebon, who was losing his patience, began to curse. ‘By the blood of Christ! It looks as if I’m the third person to think I was the first one and the only one because that was the day I went into prison!’

  He told them what day he had been let out, and the remaining three men who were at table with them swore that they too had followed, one after the other in a row.

  ‘Well,’ said Astillon, ‘since that is the case, I shall venture to say what our gaoler’s status is: she’s married and her husband is away!’

  ‘That’s the one!’ they replied together.

  ‘Now to put us all out of our misery,’ Astillon continued, ‘I’ll be the first to say who she was, since I was the first on the lady’s rota: it’s the Countess – the Countess who’s so proud and arrogant that when I thought I’d won her love I felt as if I’d conquered Julius Caesar himself! To the Devil with the miserable woman for making us work so hard for what we wanted and making us feel so pleased with ourselves when we got it! There has never been such a wicked woman! While she kept one man hidden away, she was enticing the next one so that she would never be without some amusement! I’d rather die than see her go unpunished!’

  [They all asked Astillon what punishment he thought she deserved,] assuring him that they were all ready to carry out whatever he might recommend.

  ‘It seems to me,’ he replied, ‘that we should tell our King, since he treats her like a goddess.’

  ‘No,’ [they all replied.] ‘There are enough ways of taking revenge without appealing to our master. Let’s all meet together tomorrow and wait for her as she goes to mass. We’ll all wear an iron chain around our necks and as she goes into church we’ll all greet her in a suitable manner.’

  Everybody thought that this was a good idea, and they all went off to provide themselves with iron chains. The following morning they arrived dressed in black with their iron chains wound round their necks and stood in wait for the Countess on her way to church. No sooner had she seen them in this strange accoutrement than she burst out laughing and said: ‘Where are all these miserable-looking people off to?’

  ‘Madame,’ said Astillon, ‘we are your humble prisoners, your slaves, and we are duty-bound to serve you.’

  The Countess, pretending that she did not understand, replied: ‘But you are not my prisoners, and I see no reason why you should serve me any more than any other men!’

  Valnebon stepped forward and said: ‘But we have eaten your bread for so long, Madame, that it would be most ungrateful of us not to do you service.’

  She retained her co
mposure, however, thinking that a dignified manner would disconcert them. But they were so persistent that she realized that the whole affair had been uncovered. So she quickly found a way of outdoing them, for she had lost her honour, she had no conscience left and she certainly had no intention of being put to shame in the way they intended. No, being a woman who preferred her pleasure to all the honour in the world, she did not become angry or change her behaviour in any way. The men were so abashed at this that the shame they had desired to bring down on her fell upon them and remained in their hearts.

  *

  ‘Now, Ladies, if you don’t think that story’s enough to show that women are as wicked as men, I can find plenty more to tell you. But it seems to me that the one I’ve just told you ought to be quite enough to persuade you that when a woman becomes completely shameless she’s a hundred times worse in the extent of her misdeeds than a man would be.’

  After listening to Hircan there was not a single woman in the party who did not start making the sign of the cross. One would have thought they had suddenly had a vision of all the devils in Hell! But Oisille turned to them and said:

  ‘Ladies, let us humble ourselves after listening to this terrible account, and let us do so because the person who is abandoned by God comes to resemble him with whom she is joined. For even as they who cling to God have with them the spirit of God, so they who cling to God’s adversary are imbued with the spirit of evil. Nothing more resembles a brute than a person deprived of the spirit of God.’

  ‘Whatever this poor woman did,’ said Ennasuite, ‘I would not have anything good to say about these men who boasted about “being in prison”.’

  ‘In my opinion,’ said Longarine, ‘it costs no less effort for a man to keep quiet about something when he’s got it, than it does for him to chase after it in the first place. For there is no hunter who does not take pleasure in sounding his horn when the quarry is caught, nor lover who does not glory in his conquest.’