A lady of Milan, widow of an Italian Count, had resolved never again
to marry or to love. But for three years she was so earnestly wooed by a
French gentleman, that after repeated proof of the steadfastness of his
love, she granted him what he had so greatly desired, and they vowed to
each other everlasting affection. (l)
In the days of the Grand Master of Chaumont, (2) there lived a lady who
was reckoned one of the most honourable women that there were at that
time in the city of Milan. She had married an Italian Count, and being
left a widow, lived in the house of her brothers-in-law, refusing to
hear speak of another marriage. And so discreetly and piously did she
demean herself that there was none in the Duchy, whether French or
Italian, but held her in high esteem.
1 According to M. de Lincy, who points out that Bonnivet
must be the hero of the adventure here related, the
incidents referred to would have occurred at Milan between
1501 and 1503; but in M. Lacroix's opinion they would be
posterior to 1506.—Ed.
2 See ante, note 1 to Tale XIV.
One day when her brothers and sisters-in-law offered an entertainment to
the Grand Master of Chaumont, this widow lady was obliged to be present,
though she made it her rule not to attend such gatherings when held in
other places. And when the Frenchmen saw her, they were all admiration
for her beauty and grace, especially one among them whose name I shall
not mention; for it will suffice for you to know that there was no
Frenchman in Italy more worthy of love than he, for he was endowed with
all the beauties and graces that a gentleman could have. And though he
saw that the lady wore black crape, and remained with several old women
in a corner apart from the young ones, yet, having never known what it
was to fear either man or woman, he set himself to converse with her,
taking off his mask, and leaving the dance in order to remain in her
company.
Throughout the whole of the evening he did not cease talking to her and
to the old women, and found more pleasure in doing so than if he had
been with the most youthful and bravely attired ladies of the Court. So
much, indeed, was this the case, that when the hour came to withdraw he
seemed to have not yet had time even to sit down. And although he only
spoke to the lady on such common matters as were suited to such company,
she knew very well that he desired to win her favour, and this she
resolved to guard against by all means in her power, so that he was
never afterwards able to see her at any banquet or assembly.
He inquired about the manner of her life, and found that she often went
to churches and convents; whereupon he kept such good watch that she
could never visit them so secretly but he was there before her. And he
would remain in the church as long as he had the happiness to see
her, and all the time that she was present would gaze at her so
affectionately that she could not remain in ignorance of the love he
bore her. In order to avoid him, she resolved to feign illness for a
time, and to hear mass in her own house; and at this the gentleman was
most sorely grieved, for he had no other means of seeing her than at
church.
Thinking that she had cured him of his habit, she at last returned to
the churches as before, but love quickly brought tidings of this to the
French gentleman, who then renewed his habits of devotion. He feared,
however, that she might again throw some hindrance in his way, and that
he might not have time to tell her what he would; and so one morning,
when she thought herself well concealed in a chapel, he placed himself
at the end of the altar at which she was hearing mass; and seeing that
she was but scantily attended, he turned towards her just as the priest
was elevating the host, and in a soft and loving voice said to her—
"May I be sent to perdition, madam, by Him whom the priest has now in
his hands, if you are not causing my death. Though you take from me
all means of speaking with you, you cannot be ignorant of my desire; my
wearied eyes and my deathly face must make the truth apparent to you."
(3)
3 The Queen of Navarre is known to have had a considerable
knowledge of the Italian language, and it is therefore quite
possible that she was acquainted with the story of
Poliphilus and Polia, which, although no French translation
of it appeared until 1554, had been issued at Venice as
early as 1499. In any case, however, there is a curious
similarity between the speech of the French gentleman given
above and the discourse which Poliphilus addresses to Polia
when he finds her saying her prayers in the temple. A
considerable portion of the Italian story is in keeping with
the character of the Heptameron tales.—M.
The lady pretended not to understand him, and replied—
"God's name should not thus be taken in vain; but the poets say that
the gods laugh at the oaths and lies of lovers, and so women who regard
their honour should not show themselves credulous or compassionate."
With these words she rose up and returned home.
The gentleman's anger at these words may well be imagined by such as
have experienced the like fortune. But having no lack of spirit, he held
it better to have received this unfavourable reply than to have failed
in declaring his love, to which he held fast during three years, losing
neither time nor opportunity in wooing her by letters and in other ways.
For three years, however, she vouchsafed him no reply, but shunned
him as the wolf shuns the hound that is to take him; and this she did
through fear for her honour and fair fame, and not because she hated
him. He perceived this so clearly that he pursued her more eagerly than
ever; and at last, after many refusals, troubles, tortures and despairs,
the lady took pity upon him for the greatness and steadfastness of his
love, and so granted him what he had so greatly desired and so long
awaited.
When they had agreed concerning the means to be employed, the French
gentleman failed not to repair to her house, although in doing so he
placed his life in great danger, seeing that she and her relations lived
all together.
However, being as skilful as he was handsome, he contrived the matter
so prudently that he was able to enter the lady's room at the hour which
she had appointed, and found her there all alone, lying in a beautiful
bed; but as he was hasting to put off his clothes in order to join her,
he heard a great whispering at the door, and a noise of swords scraping
against the wall.
Then the widow said to him, with the face of one nigh to death—
"Now is your life and my honour in as great danger as well can be, for I
hear my brothers outside seeking you to slay you. I pray you, therefore,
hide yourself under this bed, and when they fail to find you I shall
have reason to be angry with them for alarming me without just cause."
The gentleman, who had never yet known fear, replied—
"And what, pray, are your brothers that they should frighten a man of
mettle? If the whole breed of them were there together, I am sure they
would not tarry for the fourth thrust of my sword. Do you, therefore,
rest quietly in bed, and leave the guarding of this door to me."
Then he wrapped his cloak about his arm, took his drawn sword in his
hand, and opened the door so that he might have a closer view of
the swords that he had heard. When the door was opened, he saw two
serving-women, who, holding a sword in each hand, had raised this alarm.
"Sir," they said to him, "forgive us. We were commanded by our mistress
to act in this manner, but you shall be hindered by us no more."
Seeing that they were women, the gentleman could do no more than bid
them go to the devil, and shut the door in their faces. Then he got into
bed to the lady with all imaginable speed, his passion for her being in
no wise diminished by fear; and forgetting to inquire the reason of this
skirmish, he thought only of satisfying his desire.
But when daybreak was drawing nigh, he begged his mistress to tell him
why she had treated him so ill, both in making him wait so long, and in
having played this last trick upon him.
"My intention," she answered, laughing, "had been never to love again,
and I had observed it from the time I became a widow; but, after you
had spoken to me at the entertainment, your worth led me to change
my resolve, and to love you as much as you loved me. It is true that
honour, which had ever guided me, would not suffer me to be led by love
to do aught to the disparagement of my reputation. But as the poor hind
when wounded unto death thinks by change of place to change the pain it
carries with it, so did I go from church to church thinking to flee from
him whom I carried in my heart, and the proof of whose perfect devotion
has reconciled honour and love. However, that I might be the more
certain that I was giving my heart and love to a true man, I desired to
make this last proof by means of my serving-women. And I vow to you that
had I found you so timorous as to hide beneath my bed, either for fear
of your life or for any other reason, I was resolved to rise and go into
another room and never see you more. But since I have found that you are
possessed of more beauty, and grace, and virtue, and valour than rumour
had given you, and that fear has no power over your heart, nor can cool
one whit the love you bear me, I am resolved to cleave to you for the
remainder of my days. I feel sure that I could not place life and
honour in better hands than those of one whom I deem unmatched in every
virtue."
And, just as though the human will could be unchangeable, they vowed and
promised what was not in their power, namely, perpetual affection. For
this is a thing that can neither spring up nor abide in the heart of
man, as only those ladies know who have had experience of how long such
feelings last. (4)
4 In Boaistuau's edition of the Heptameron the final part
of the above sentence is given as follows: "And those women
that have had experience of it know this, and also how long
such fancies last." An extract from Brantôme in connection
with the story will be found in the Appendix to this volume,
D.
"So, ladies, if you are wise, you will beware of us even as the stag,
had he understanding, would beware of the hunter; for our glory,
happiness, and delight is to see you captured in order to rob you of
that which is more precious to you than life."
"Why, Geburon," said Hircan, "since when have you turned preacher? I can
remember a time when you did not talk after that fashion."
"It is quite true," said Geburon, "that I have just spoken contrary to
what I have always said my life long; but since my teeth are no longer
able to chew venison, I warn the hapless deer to beware of the hunters,
in order that I may atone in my old age for all the mischief which I
sought to do in my youth."
"We thank you, Geburon," said Nomerfide, "for warning us to our profit,
but for all that we do not feel very greatly beholden to you. You never
spoke in that way to one you truly loved, and this is a proof that
you have little love for us, and, moreover, would not have us loved.
Nevertheless, we hold ourselves as discreet and as virtuous as the
ladies whom you so long pursued in your youth. But old folk are commonly
vain enough to think that they have been wiser in their time than those
who come after them."
"Well, Nomerfide," said Geburon, "will you believe that I have told
you the truth when the faithlessness of one of your lovers has made you
acquainted with the evil nature of men?"
"It seems to me," said Oisille to Geburon, "that the gentleman whom you
praise so highly for his boldness ought rather to be praised for the
ardour of his love. So strong is this passion, that it impels the most
cowardly to embark on enterprises about which the bravest would think
twice."
"If, madam," said Saffredent, "he'had not deemed the Italians to be
better at talking than acting, me-thinks he had reason to be afraid."
"Yes," said Oisille, "if he had not had in his heart the fire that
consumes fear."
"Since you do not deem the boldness of this gentleman altogether worthy
of praise," said Hircan, "you doubtless know of some one else more
deserving of commendation."
"Nay," said Oisille, "the gentleman in the story deserves praise, but I
do know of one who is more worthy of being admired."
"I pray you, madam," said Geburon, "if that be so, take my place and
tell us the tale."
"If," began Oisille, "a man who showed such boldness against the
Milanese to save his own life and his mistress's honour is to be
esteemed so very brave, what shall be said of one who, without any need
for it, and from pure and simple valour, performed the deed of which I
will now tell you?"
