That you, to lead the cloistered life austere, Are gone with speech to none; whereat the pain That ever holds me, now can brook no rein, But forces me mine own estate to slight For that which yours aforetime was of right; To seek him out who once sought me alone, And win him who myself has sometimes won.
Nay then, my love, life of the life in me, For loss of whom I fain would cease to be, Turn hither, graciously, those eyes of pain And trace those wandering footsteps back again.
Leave the grey robe and its austerity, Come back and taste of that felicity Which often you desired, and which to-day Time has nor slain, nor swept away.
For you alone I've kept myself; and I, Lacking your presence, cannot choose but die.
Come back then; in your sweetheart have belief, And for past memories find cool relief In holy marriage-ties. Ah! then, my dear, To me, not to your pride give ready ear, And rest of this assured, I had no thought To give, sweetheart, to you offence in aught, But only yearned your faithfulness to prove And then to make you happy with my love.
But now that through this trial, free from scathe, Are come your steadfastness and patient faith, And all that loyal love to me is known, Which at the last has made me yours alone, Come, my beloved, take what is your due And wholly yield to me, as I to you!"
This letter, brought by a friend of hers with every remonstrance that it was possible to make, was received and read by the gentleman friar with such sadness of countenance, such sighs and such tears, that it seemed as though he would drown and burn the poor epistle. But he made no reply to it, except to tell the messenger that the mortification of his exceeding passion had cost him so dear as to have taken from him both the wish to live and the fear to die. He therefore requested her who had been the cause of this, that since she had not chosen to satisfy his passionate longings, she would, now that he was rid of them, abstain from tormenting him, and rest content with the evil which was past. For that evil he could find no remedy but the choice of an austere life, which by continual penance might bring him to forget his grief, and, by fasts and disciplines, subdue his body, till the thought of death should be to him but a sovereign consolation. Above all, he begged that he might never hear of her, since he found the mere remembrance of her name a purgatory not to be endured.
The gentleman went back with this mournful reply, and reported it to the maiden who did not hear it without intolerable sorrow. But Love, which will not suffer the spirit utterly to fail, gave her the thought that, if she could see him, her words and presence might be of more effect than the writing. She therefore, with her father and the nearest of her kin, went to the monastery where he abode. She had left nothing in her box that might set off her beauty, for she felt sure that, could he but once look at her and hear her, the fire that had so long dwelt in both their hearts must of necessity be kindled again in greater strength than before.
Coming thus into the monastery towards the end of vespers, she sent for him to come to her in a chapel that was in the cloister. He, knowing not who it was that sought him, went in all ignorance to the sternest battle in which he had ever been. When she saw him so pale and wan that she could hardly recognise him, yet filled with grace, in no whit less winning than of yore, Love made her stretch out her arms to embrace him, whilst her pity at seeing him in such a plight so enfeebled her heart, that she sank swooning to the floor.
The poor monk, who was not void of brotherly charity, lifted her up and set her upon a seat in the chapel. Although he had no less need of aid than she had, he feigned to be unaware of her passion, and so strengthened his heart in the love of God against the opportunities now present with him, that, judging by his countenance, he seemed not to know what was actually before him. Having recovered from her weakness, she turned upon him her beautiful, piteous eyes, which were enough to soften a rock, and began to utter all such discourse as she believed apt to draw him from the place in which he now was. He replied as virtuously as he was able; but at last, finding that his heart was being softened by his sweetheart's abundant tears, and perceiving that Love, the cruel archer whose pains he long had known, was ready with his golden dart to deal him fresh and more deadly wounds, he fled both from Love and from his sweetheart, like one whose only resource lay, indeed, in flight.
When he was shut up in his room, not desiring to let her go without some settlement of the matter, he wrote her a few words in Spanish, which seem to me so excellent in their matter that I would not by translating them mar their grace. These were brought to her by a little novice, who found her still in the chapel and in such despair that, had it been lawful, she too would have remained there and turned friar. But when she saw the words, which were these--
"Volvete don venesti, anima mia, Que en las tristas vidas es la mia," (1)
she knew that all hope was gone, and she resolved to follow the advice of him and her friends, and so returned home, there to lead a life as melancholy as that of her lover in his monastery was austere.
1 "Return whence thou earnest, my soul, for among the sad lives is mine."'
"You see, ladies, what vengeance the gentleman took upon his harsh sweetheart, who, thinking to try him, reduced him to such despair that, when she would have regained him, she could not do so."
"I am sorry," said Nomerfide, "that he did not lay aside his gown and marry her. It would, I think, have been a perfect marriage."
"In good sooth," said Simontault, "I think he was very wise. Anyone who well considers what marriage is will deem it no less grievous than a monkish life. Moreover, being so greatly weakened by fasts and abstinence, he feared to take upon him a burden of that kind which lasts all through life."
"Methinks," said Hircan, "she wronged so feeble a man by tempting him to marriage, for 'tis too much for the strongest man alive; but had she spoken to him of love, free from any obligation but that of the will, there is no friar's cord that would not have been untied. However, since she sought to draw him out of purgatory by offering him hell, I think that he was quite right to refuse her, and to let her feel the pain that her own refusal had cost him."
"By my word," said Ennasuite, "there are many who, thinking to do better than their fellows, do either worse or else the very opposite of what they desire."
"Truly," said Geburon, "you remind me--though, indeed, the matter is not greatly to the point--of a woman who did the opposite of what she desired, and so caused a great uproar in the church of St. John of Lyons."
"I pray you," said Parlamente, "take my place and tell us about it."
"My story," said Geburon, "will not be so long or so piteous as the one we have heard from Parlamente."
[Illustration: 141.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 143a. The Old Woman startled by the Waking of the Soldier]
[The Old Woman startled by the Waking of the Soldier]
[Illustration: 143.jpg Page Image]
_TALE LXV_.
_Though the priests of St. John of Lyons would fain have concealed it, the falsity of a miracle was brought to light through an old woman's folly becoming known_. (1)
In the church of St. John of Lyons there is a very dark chapel, and inside it a stone tomb with figures of great personages raised life-like upon it, whilst several men-at-arms lie all around it.
1 We believe that the incident here narrated occurred early in 1525, when Margaret is known to have been at Lyons. She and her husband (on his return from Pavia) resided there at the house of the Obediencier de St. Just, and it was in the church of St. Just that the Duke of Alencon was buried.
Doubtless it was during his illness that the _novena_ alluded to in the final tale of the _Heptameron_ was performed by Queen Margaret at the church of St. John of Lyons, where the two most important chapels, according to Quincarnon's _Antiquites et la fondation de la Metropole des Gaules, &c._, Lyons, 1673, were the Most Holy Eucharist, or Bourbon chapel, built in 1449 by Charles de Bourbon, Primate of Gaul, and the Holy Sepulchre, or Good Friday chapel, erected at the beginning of the fifteenth century by Philip de Turey, Archbishop of Lyons. Unfortunately the church of St. John was in 1652 devastated by the Huguenots, who in their insensate fury destroyed almost all the tombs.
It is therefore now impossible to identify the chapel and tomb to which the Queen of Navarre refers in the above story, though her allusion to the dimness of the light would incline us to place the incident she recounts in the Chapelle du St. Sepulcre.--L. and Ed.
One day a soldier, walking in the church at the very height of summer, felt inclined to sleep, and, looking at this dark, cool chapel, resolved to go and guard the tomb in sleep like the rest; (2) and accordingly he lay down beside them. Now it chanced that a very pious old woman came in while his sleep was the soundest, and having performed her devotions, holding a lighted taper in her hand, she sought to fix this taper to the tomb. Finding that the sleeping man was nearest to her, she tried to set it upon his forehead, thinking that it was of stone; but the wax would not stick to such stone as this, whereupon the worthy dame, believing that the reason of it was the coldness of the statue, applied the flame to the sleeper's forehead, that she might the better fix the taper on it. At this, however, the statue, which was not without feeling, began to cry out.
2 Meaning the recumbent statues of the men-at-arms.--Ed.
The good woman was then in exceeding fear, and set herself to shout, "A miracle! a miracle!" until all who were in the church ran, some to ring the bells, and the rest to view the miracle. The good woman forthwith took them to see the statue that had stirred, whereupon many found food for laughter; though the greater number were unable to feel any content, inasmuch as they had really determined to make profit out of the tomb, and to gain as much money by it as by the crucifix on their pulpit, which is said to have spoken. (3) But when the woman's folly became known the farce came to an end. If all knew of their follies, they would not be accounted holy nor their miracles true. And I would beg you, ladies, to see henceforward to what saints you offer your candles. (4)
3 The crucifix in the church of St. John was mainly of silver, and, according to Quincarnon, at the time of a Huguenot outbreak at Lyons it was thrown to the ground by a Calvinist minister named Ruffy, who, after reducing it to fragments, carried all the precious metal away with him.--M.
4 The latter portion of this story and all the dialogue that follows it are omitted by Boaistuau in his edition.
Gruget inserted the dialogue, but he did not dare to print the passage respecting the talking crucifix.--L.
"'Tis notable," said Hircan, "that, whatever the matter in question may be, women always do wrong."
"Is it wrong," asked Nomerfide, "to bring candles to a tomb?"
"Yes," said Hircan, "if the flame be turned against a man's forehead; for nothing good should be called good if it be attended with evil. You may be sure that the poor woman thought she had made a fine gift to God with her little candle."
"I look not to the gift," said Oisille, "but to the heart that offers it. Perhaps this worthy woman had more love for God than those who offer great torches; for, as the Gospel says, she gave of her need."
"Still, I no not believe," said Saffredent, "that God, who is sovereign wisdom, can be pleased with the foolishness of women. Although simplicity is pleasing to Him, I see from the Scriptures that He despises the ignorant; and if He commands us to be as harmless as the dove, He none the less commands us to be wise like the serpent."
"For my part," said Oisille, "I do not call the woman ignorant who brings her candle or burning taper into the presence of God, and makes amends for her wrongdoing on bended knees before her sovereign Lord, confessing her unworthiness and with steadfast hope seeking pity and salvation."
"Would to God," said Dagoucin, "that all understood it in the same way as you; but I do not believe that these poor fools do it with the intent you say."
"The women," said Oisille, "who are least able to speak are just those who are most sensible of the love and will of God; wherefore 'tis well to judge none but ourselves."
Ennasuite laughed and said--"'Tis no wonderful thing to have frightened a sleeping varlet, since women of as lowly condition have frightened noble Princes, without putting fire to their foreheads."
"I am sure," said Geburon, "that you know some such story, which you are willing to relate; wherefore, if it please you, you shall take my place."
"The tale will not be a long one," said Ennasuite, "but, could I recount it just as it happened, you would have no desire to weep."
[Illustration: 147.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 149a. The Old Serving-woman explaining her Mistake to the Duke and Duchess of Vendome]
[The Old Serving-woman explaining her Mistake to the Duke and Duchess of Vendome]