“I will wager,” said the duke, smiling, “that, nevertheless, for the future you spur the Sire d’Hocquetonville to a little sharper pace.”
At this the good wife trembled, and cried, “You are a wicked man. Now I both despise and abominate you! What! unable to rob me of my honour, you attempt to soil my mind! Ah, my lord, this night’s work will cost you dear:—
If I forgive it, yet,
God will not forget.
“Are not those verses yours?”
“Madame,” said the duke, turning pale with anger, “I can have you bound——”
“Oh, no! I can free myself,” replied she, brandishing the stiletto.
The rapscallion began to laugh.
“Never mind,” said he. “I have a means of plunging you into the sloughs of these brazen hussies, as you call them.”
“Never, while I live.”
“Heads and heels you shall go in—with your two feet, two hands, two ivory breasts, and two other things, white as snow—your teeth, your hair, and everything. You will go of your own accord; you shall enter into it lasciviously and in a way to crush your cavalier, as a wild horse does its rider—stamping, leaping, and snorting. I swear it by Saint Castud!”
Instantly he whistled for one of his pages. And when the page came, he secretly ordered him to go and seek the Sire d’Hocquetonville, Savoisy, Tanneguy, Cypierre, and other members of his band, asking them to these rooms to supper, not without at the same time inviting to meet his guests a pretty petticoat or two.
Then he came and sat down in his chair again, ten paces from the lady, off whom he had not taken his eye while giving his commands to the page in a whisper.
“Raoul is jealous,” said he. “Now let me give you a word of advice. In this place,” he added, pointing to a secret door, “are the oils and superfine perfumes of the queen; in this other little closet she performs her ablutions and little feminine offices. I know by much experience that each one of you gentle creatures has her own special perfume, by which she is smelt and recognized. So if, as you say, Raoul is overwhelmingly jealous with the worst of all jealousies, you will use these fast hussies’ scents, because your danger approaches fast.”
“Ah, my lord, what do you intend to do?”
“You will know when it is necessary that you should know. I wish you no harm, and pledge you my honour, as a loyal knight, that I will most thoroughly respect you, and be for ever silent concerning my discomfiture. In short, you will know that the Duc d’Orléans has a good heart, and revenges himself nobly on ladies who treat him with disdain, by placing in their hands the key of Paradise. Only keep your ears open to the joyous words that will be handed from mouth to mouth in the next room, and cough not if you love your children.”
Since there was no egress from the royal chamber, and the bars crossing hardly left room to put one’s head through, the good prince closed the door of the room, certain of keeping the lady a safe prisoner there, and again impressed upon her the necessity of silence. Then came the merry blades in great haste, and found a good substantial supper smiling at them from the silver plates upon the table, and the table well arranged and well lighted, loaded with fine silver cups, and cups full of royal wine. Then said their master to them—
“Come! come! to your places, my good friends. I was becoming very weary. Thinking of you, I wished to arrange with you a merry feast after the ancient method, when the Greeks and Romans said their Pater noster to Master Priapus, and the learned god called in all countries Bacchus. The feast will be a proper and right hearty one, since at our libation there will be present some pretty crows with three beaks, of which I know from great experience the best one to kiss.”
Then all of them recognizing their master in all things, took pleasure in this gay discourse, except Raoul d’Hocquetonville, who advanced and said to the prince—
“My lord, I will aid you willingly in any battle but that of the petticoats, in that of spear and axe, but not of the wine flasks. My good companions here present have not wives at home, it is otherwise with me. I have a sweet wife, to whom I owe my company, and an account of all my deeds and actions.”
“Then, since I am a married man I am to blame?” said the duke.
“Ah! my dear master, you are a prince, and can do as you please.”
These brave speeches made, as you can imagine, the heart of the lady prisoner hot and cold.
“Ah! my Raoul,” thought she, “thou art a noble man!”
“You are,” said the duke, “a man whom I love, and consider more faithful and praiseworthy than any of my people. The others,” said he, looking at the three lords, “are wicked men. But, Raoul,” he continued, “sit thee down. When the linnets come—they are linnets of high degree—you can make your way home. S’death! I had treated thee as a virtuous man, ignorant of the extra-conjugal joys of love, and had carefully put for thee in that room the queen of raptures—a fair demon, in whom is concentrated all feminine inventions. I wished that once in thy life thou, who hast never tasted the essence of love, and dreamed but of war, should know the secret marvels of the gallant amusement, since it is shameful that one of my followers should serve a fair lady badly.”
Thereupon the Sire d’Hocquetonville sat down to the table in order to please his prince as far as he could lawfully do so. Then they all commenced to laugh, joke, and talk about the ladies; and, according to their custom, they related to each other their good fortunes and their love adventures, sparing no woman except the queen of the house, and betraying the little habits of each one, to which followed horrible little confidences, which increased in treachery and lechery as the contents of the goblets grew less. The duke, gay as an universal legatee, drew the guests out, telling lies himself to learn the truth from them; and his companions ate at a trot, drank at full gallop, and their tongues rattled away faster than either.
Now, listening to them, and heating his brain with wine, the Sire d’Hocquetonville unharnessed himself little by little from his reluctance. In spite of his virtues, he indulged certain desires, and became soaked in these impurities like a saint who defiles himself while saying his prayers. Perceiving which, the prince, on the alert to satisfy his ire and his bile, began to say to him, joking him—
“By St. Castud, Raoul, we are all tarred with the same brush, all discreet away from here. Go; we will say nothing to Madame. By heaven! man, I wish thee to taste the joys of paradise. There,” said he, tapping the door of the room in which was Madame Hocquetonville, “in there is a lady of the court and a friend of the queen, but the greatest priestess of Venus that ever was, and her equal is not to be found in any courtesan, harlot, dancer, doxy, or hussy. She was engendered at a moment when paradise was radiant with joy, when nature was procreating, when the planets were whispering vows of love, when the beasts were frisking and capering, and everything was aglow with desire. Although the woman to make an altar her bed, she is nevertheless too great a lady to allow herself to be seen, and too well known to utter any words but sounds of love. No light will you need, for her eyes flash fire, and attempt no conversation, since she speaks only with movements and twistings more rapid than those of a deer surprised in the forest. Only, my dear Raoul, with so merry a nag look to your stirrups, sit lightly in the saddle, since with one plunge she would hurl thee to the ceiling, if you are not careful. She burns always, and is always longing, for male society. Our poor dead friend, the young Sire de Giac, met his death through her; she drained his marrow in one springtime. God’s truth! to know such bliss as that of which she rings the bells and lights the fires, what man would not forfeit a third of his future happiness? and he who has known her once would for a second night forfeit without regret eternity.”
“But,” said Raoul, “in things which should be so much alike, how is it there is so great a difference?”
“Ha! ha! ha!”
Thereupon the company burst out laughing, and animated by the wine and a wink from their master, they all commenced relating droll and
quaint conceits, laughing, shouting, and making a great noise. Now, knowing not that an innocent scholar was there, these jokers, who had drowned their sense of shame in the wine-cups, said things to make the figures on the mantel shake, the walls and the ceilings blush; and the duke surpassed them all, saying, that the lady who was in bed in the next room awaiting a gallant should be the empress of these warm imaginations, because she practised them every night. Upon this, the flagons being empty, the duke pushed Raoul, who let himself be pushed willingly, into the room, and by this means the prince compelled the lady to deliberate by which dagger she would either live or die. At midnight the Sire d’Hocquetonville came out gleefully, not without remorse at having been false to his good wife. Then the Duc d’Orléans led Madame Hocquetonville out by a garden door, so that she gained her residence before her husband arrived there. “This,” said she, in the prince’s ear, as she passed the postern, “will cost us all dear.”
One year afterwards, in the old Rue du Temple, Raoul d’Hocquetonville, who had quitted the service of the duke for that of Jehan of Burgundy, gave the king’s brother a blow on the head with a club, and killed him, as every one knows. In the same year died the Lady d’Hocquetonville, having faded like a flower deprived of air and eaten by a worm. Her good husband had engraved upon her marble tomb, which is in one of the cloisters of Péronne, the following inscription:—
HERE LIES
BERTHA DE BOURGONGNE,
THE NOBLE AND COMELY WIFE
OF
RAOUL, SIRE DE HOCQUETONVILLE.
ALAS! PRAY NOT FOR HER SOUL.
SHE
BLOSSOMED AGAIN IN PARADISE,
THE ELEVENTH DAY OF JANUARY,
IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD MCCCCVIII.,
IN THE TWENTY-THIRD YEAR OF HER AGE,
LEAVING TWO SONS AND HER LORD SPOUSE
INCONSOLABLE.
This epitaph was written in elegant Latin, but for the convenience of all it was necessary to translate it, although the word comely is feeble beside that of formosa, which signifies beautiful in shape. The Duke of Burgundy, called the Fearless, to whom previous to his death the Sire d’Hocquetonville confided the troubles cemented with lime and sand in his heart, used to say, in spite of his hard-heartedness in these matters, that this epitaph plunged him into a state of melancholy for a month, and that among all the abominations of his cousin of Orléans, there was one for which he would kill him over again if the deed had not already been done, because this wicked man had villainously defaced with vice the most divine virtue in the world and had prostituted two noble hearts, the one by the other. When saying this he would think of the lady of Hocquetonville and of his own, whose portrait had been unwarrantably placed in the cabinet where his cousin placed the likenesses of his wenches.
This adventure was so extremely shocking, that when it was related by the Count de Charolois to the Dauphin, afterwards Louis XI., the latter would not allow his secretaries to publish it in his collection, out of respect for his great-uncle the Duke of Orléans, and for Dunois his old comrade, the son of the same. But the person of the lady of Hocquetonville is so sublimely virtuous, so exquisitely melancholy, that in her favour the present publication of this narrative will be forgiven, in spite of the diabolical invention’ and vengeance of Monseigneur d’Orléans. The just death of this rascal nevertheless caused many serious rebellions, which finally Louis XI., losing all patience, put down with fire and sword.
This shows us that there is a woman at the bottom of everything, in France as elsewhere, and that sooner or later we must pay for our follies.
THE DANGER OF BEING TOO INNOCENT
THE lord of Moncontour was a brave soldier of Tours, who, in honour of the battle gained by the Duke of Anjou, afterwards our right glorious king, caused to be built at Vouvray the castle thus named, for he had borne himself most bravely in that affair, where he overcame the greatest of heretics, and from that was authorized to take the name. Now this said captain had two sons, good Catholics, of whom the eldest was in favour at court. After the peace, which was concluded before the stratagem arranged for St. Bartholomew’s day, the good man returned to his manor, which Was not ornamented as it is at the present day. There he received the sad announcement of the death of his son, slain in a duel by the lord of Villequier. The poor father was the more cut up at this, as he had arranged a capital marriage for this said son with a young lady of the male branch of Amboise. Now, by this death most piteously inopportune, vanished all the future and advantages of his family, of which he wished to make a great and noble house. With this idea, he had put his other son in a monastery, under the guidance and government of a man renowned for his holiness, who brought him up in a Christian manner, according to the desire of his father, who wished from high ambition to make of him a cardinal of renown. For this the good abbot kept the young man in a private house, had him to sleep by his side in his cell, allowed no evil weeds to grow in his mind, brought him up in purity of soul and true contrition, as all priests should be. This said clerk, when turned nineteen years, knew no other love than the love of God, no other nature than that of the angels who have not our carnal properties, in order that they may live in purity, seeing that otherwise they would make good use of them. The which the King on High, who wished to have His pages always proper, was afraid of. He has done well, because his good little people cannot drink in dram shops or riot in brothels as ours do. He is divinely served; but then, remember, He is Lord of all. Now in this plight the lord of Moncontour determined to withdraw his second son from the cloister, and invest him with the purple of the soldier and the courtier, in the place of the ecclesiastical purple; and determined to give him in marriage to the maiden, affianced to the dead man, which was wisely determined because wrapped round with continence and sobriety in all ways as was the little monk, the bride would be as well used and happier than she would have been with the elder, already well hauled over, upset, and spoilt by the ladies of the court. The befrocked unfrocked, and very sheepish in his ways, followed the sacred wishes of his father, and consented to the said marriage without knowing what a wife, and—what is more curious—what a girl was. By chance, his journey having been hindered by the troubles and marches of conflicting parties, this innocent—more innocent than it is lawful for a man to be innocent—only came to the castle of Moncontour the evening before the wedding, which was performed with dispensations bought in the archbishopric of Tours. It is necessary here to describe the bride. Her mother, long time a widow, lived in the house of M. de Braguelongne, civil lieutenant of the Chatelet de Paris, whose wife lived with the lord of Lignieres, to the great scandal of the period. But every one then had so many joists in his own eye that he had no right to notice the rafters in the eyes of others. Now, in all families people go to perdition, without noticing their neighbours, some at an amble, others at a gentle trot, many at a gallop, and a small number walking, seeing that the road is all down hill. Thus in these times the devil had many a good orgie in all things, since that misconduct was fashionable. The poor old lady Virtue had retired trembling, no one knew whither, but now here, now there, lived miserably in company with honest women.
In the most noble house of Amboise there still lived the dowager of Chaumont, an old woman of well-proved virtue, in whom had retired all the religion and good conduct of this fine family. The said lady had taken to her bosom, from the age of ten years, the little maiden who is concerned in this adventure, and who never caused Madame Amboise the least anxiety, but left her free in her movements, and she came to see her daughter once a year, when the court passed that way. In spite of this high maternal reserve, Madame Amboise was invited to her daughter’s wedding, and also the lord of Braguelongne, by the good old soldier, who knew his people. But the dear dowager came not to Moncontour, because she could not obtain leave from her sciatica, her cold, nor the state of her legs, which gambolled no longer. Over this the good woman cried copiously. It hurt her much to let go into the dangers of the court and of
life this gentle maiden, as pretty as it was possible for a pretty girl to be, but she was obliged to give her her wings. But it was not without promising her many masses and orisons every evening for her happiness. And comforted a little, the good old lady began to think that the staff of her old age was passing into the hands of a quasi-saint, brought up to do good by the above-mentioned abbot, with whom she was acquainted, the which had aided considerably in the prompt exchange of spouses. At length, embracing her with tears, the virtuous dowager made those last recommendations to her that ladies make to young brides, as that she ought to be respectful to his mother, and obey her husband in everything.
Then the maid arrived with a great noise, conducted by servants, chamberlains, grooms, gentlemen, and people of the house of Chaumont, so that you would have imagined her suite to be that of a cardinal legate. So arrived the two spouses the evening before their marriage. Then, the feasting over, they were married with great pomp on the Lord’s Day, a mass being said at the castle by the Bishop of Blois, who was a great friend of the lord of Moncontour; in short, the feasting, the dancing, and the festivities of all sorts lasted till the morning. But on the stroke of midnight the bridesmaids went to put the bride to bed, according to the custom of Touraine; and during this time they kept quarrelling with the innocent husband, to prevent him going to this innocent wife, who sided with them from ignorance. However, the good lord of Moncontour interrupted the jokers and the wits, because it was necessary that his son should occupy himself in well-doing. Then went the innocent into the chamber of his wife, whom he thought more beautiful than the Virgin Marys painted in Italian, Flemish, and other pictures, at whose feet he had said his prayers. But you may be sure he felt very much embarrassed at having so soon become a husband, because he knew nothing of his business, and saw that certain forms had to be gone through concerning which, from great and modest reserve, he had not time to question even his father, who had said sharply to him—
Droll Stories Page 24
