Chapter 2

Near the town of Alençon there lived a gentleman called the Lord of La Tireliere, who one morning came from his house to the town afoot, both because the distance was not great and because it was freezing hard. (1) When he had done his business, he sought out a crony of his, an advocate named Anthony Bacheré, and, after speaking with him of his affairs, he told him that he should much like to meet with a good breakfast, but at somebody else’s expense. While thus discussing, they sat themselves down in front of an apothecary’s shop, where there was a varlet who listened to them, and who forthwith resolved to give them their breakfast.

1 The phraseology of this story varies considerably in the different MSS. of the _Heptameron_. In No. 1520, for instance, the tale begins as follows: “In the town of Alençon, in the time of the last Duke Charles, there was an advocate, a merry companion, fond of breakfasting o’ mornings. One day, whilst he sat at his door, he saw pass a gentleman called the Lord of La Tilleriere, who, by reason of the extreme cold, had come on foot from his house to the town in order to attend to certain business there, and in doing so had not forgotten to put on his great robe, lined with fox-skin. And when he saw the advocate, who was much such a man as himself, he told him that he had completed his business, and had nothing further to do, except it were to find a good breakfast. The advocate made answer that they could find breakfasts enough and to spare, provided they had some one to defray the cost, and, taking the other under the arm, he said to him, ‘Come, gossip, we may perhaps find some fool who will pay the reckoning for us both.’ Now behind them was an apothecary’s man, an artful and inventive fellow, whom this advocate was always plaguing,” &c.--L.

He went out from his shop into a street whither all repaired on needful occasions, (2) and there found a large lump of ordure standing on end, and so well frozen that it looked like a small loaf of fine sugar. Forthwith he wrapped it in handsome white paper, in the manner he was wont to use for the attraction of customers, and hid it in his sleeve.

2 In olden time, as shown in the _Mémoires de l’Académie de Troyes_, there were in most French towns streets specially set aside for the purpose referred to. At Alençon, in Queen Margaret’s time, there was a street called the Rue des Fumiers, as appears from a report dated March 8, 1564 (Archives of the Orne, Series A). Probably it is to this street that she alludes. (Communicated by M. L. Duval, archivist of the department of the Orne).--M.

Afterwards he came and passed in front of the gentleman and the advocate, and, letting the sugar-loaf (3) fall near them, as if by mischance, went into a house whither he had pretended to be carrying it.

The Lord of La Tirelière (4) hastened back with all speed to pick up what he thought to be a sugar-loaf, and just as he had done so the apothecary’s man also came back looking and asking for his sugar everywhere.

3 M. Duval, archivist of the Orne, states that La Tirelière, which is situated near St. Germain-du-Corbois, within three miles of Alençon, is an old _gentilhommière_ or manor-house, surrounded by a moat. It was originally a simple _vavassonrie_ held in fief from the Counts and Dukes of Alençon by the Pantolf and Crouches families, and in the seventeenth century was merged into the marquisate of L’Isle.--M.

4 Sugar was at this period sold by apothecaries, and was a rare and costly luxury. There were loaves of various sizes, but none so large as those of the present time.--M.

The gentleman, thinking that he had cleverly tricked him, then went in haste to a tavern with his crony, to whom he said--

“Our breakfast has been paid for at the cost of that varlet.”

When he was come to the tavern he called for good bread, good wine and good meat, for he thought that he had wherewith to pay. But whilst he was eating, as he began to grow warm, his sugar-loaf in its turn began to thaw and melt, and filled the whole room with the smell peculiar to it, whereupon he, who carried it in his bosom, grew wroth with the waiting-woman, and said to her--

“You are the filthiest folks that ever I knew in this town, for either you or your children have strewn all this room with filth.”

“By St. Peter!” replied the woman, “there is no filth here unless you have brought it in yourselves.”

Thereupon they rose, by reason of the great stench that they smelt, and went up to the fire, where the gentleman drew out of his bosom a handkerchief all dyed with the melted sugar, and on opening his robe, lined with fox-skin, found it to be quite spoiled.

And all that he was able to say to his crony was this--

“The rogue whom we thought to deceive has deceived us instead.”

Then they paid their reckoning and went away as vexed as they had been merry on their arrival, when they fancied they had tricked the apothecary’s varlet. (5)

5 In MS. 1520, this tale ends in the following manner:-- “They were no sooner in the street than they perceived the apothecary’s man going about and making inquiry of every one whether they had not seen a loaf of sugar wrapped in paper. They [the advocate and his companion] sought to avoid him, but he called aloud to the advocate, ‘If you have my loaf of sugar, sir, I beg that you will give it back to me, for ‘tis a double sin to rob a poor servant.’ His shouts brought to the spot many people curious to witness the dispute, and the true circumstances of the case were so well proven, that the apothecary’s man was as glad to have been robbed as the others were vexed at having committed such a nasty theft. However, they comforted themselves with the hope that they might some day give him tit for tat.”--Ed.

“Often, ladies, do we see the like befall those who delight in using such cunning. If the gentleman had not sought to eat at another’s expense, he would not have drunk so vile a beverage at his own. It is true, ladies, that my story is not a very clean one, but you gave me license to speak the truth, and I have done so in order to show you that no one is sorry when a deceiver is deceived.”

“It is commonly said,” replied Hircan, “that words have no stink, yet those for whom they are intended do not easily escape smelling them.”

“It is true,” said Oisille, “that such words do not stink, but there are others which are spoken of as nasty, and which are of such evil odour that they disgust the soul even more than the body is disgusted when it smells such a sugar-loaf as you described in the tale.”

“I pray you,” said Hircan, “tell me what words you know of so foul as to sicken both the heart and soul of a virtuous woman.”

“It would indeed be seemly,” replied Oisille, “that I should tell you words which I counsel no woman to utter.”

“By that,” said Saffredent, “I quite understand what those terms are. They are such as women desirous of being held discreet do not commonly employ. But I would ask all the ladies present why, when they dare not utter them, they are so ready to laugh at them when they are used in their presence.”

Then said Parlamente--

“We do not laugh because we hear such pretty expressions, though it is indeed true that every one is disposed to laugh on seeing anybody stumble or on hearing any one utter an unfitting word, as often happens. The tongue will trip and cause one word to be used for another, even by the discreetest and most excellent speakers. But when you men talk viciously, not from ignorance, but by reason of your own wickedness, I know of no virtuous woman who does not feel a loathing for such speakers, and who would not merely refuse to hearken to them, but even to remain in their company.”

“That is very true,” responded Geburon. “I have frequently seen women make the sign of the cross on hearing certain words spoken, and cease not in doing so after these words had been uttered a second time.”

“But how many times,” said Simontault, “have they put on their masks (6) in order to laugh as freely as they pretended to be angry?”

“Yet it were better to do this,” said Parlamente, “than to let it be seen that the talk pleased them.”

“Then,” said Dagoucin, “you praise a lady’s hypocrisy no less than her virtue?”

“Virtue would be far better,” said Longarine, “but, when it is lacking, recourse must be had to hypocrisy, just as we use our slippers (7) to disguise our littleness. And it is no small matter to be able to conceal our imperfections.”

8 _Tourets-de-nez_. _See ante_, vol. iii. p. 27, note 5.--Ed.

7 High-heeled slippers or _mules_ were then worn.--B. J.

“By my word,” said Hircan, “it were better sometimes to show some slight imperfection than to cover it so closely with the cloak of virtue.”

“It is true,” said Ennasuitc, “that a borrowed garment brings the borrower as much dishonour when he is constrained to return it as it brought him honour whilst it was being worn, and there is a lady now living who, by being too eager to conceal a small error, fell into a greater.”

“I think,” said Hircan, “that I know whom you mean; in any case, however, do not pronounce her name.”

“Ho! ho!” said Geburon [to Ennasuite], “I give you my vote on condition that when you have related the story you will tell us the names. We will swear never to mention them.”

“I promise it,” said Knnasuite, “for there is nothing that may not be told in all honour.”

[The Lord des Cheriots flying from the Prince’s Servant]

_TALE LIII_.

_By her dissimulation the Lady of Neufchastel caused the Prince of Belhoste to put her to such proof that it turned to her dishonour_.

King Francis the First was once at a handsome and pleasant castle, whither he had gone with a small following, both for the purpose of hunting and in order to take some repose. With him in his train was a certain Prince of Belhoste, (1) as worshipful, virtuous, discreet and handsome a Prince as any at Court. The wife he had married did not belong to a family of high rank, yet he loved her as dearly and treated her as well as it were possible for a husband to do, and also trusted in her. And when he was in love with anybody he never concealed it from her, knowing that she had no other will than his own.

1 The Bibliophile Jacob surmises that this personage may be one of the Italian grandees at that period in the service of France, in which case the allusion may be to John Caraccioli, Prince of Melphes, created a marshal of France in 1544. Queen Margaret, however, makes no mention of her Prince being a foreigner. “Belhoste” is of course a fictitious name invented to replace that which the Prince really bore, and admits of so many interpretations that its meaning in the present instance cannot well be determined. From the circumstance, however, that the Prince’s wife was of inferior birth to himself, it is not impossible that the personage referred to may be either Charles de Bourbon, Prince of La Roche-sur-Yonne and Duke of Beaupréau, or John VIII., Lord of Créqui, Canaples and Pontdormi, and Prince of Poix. The former, who married Philippa de Montespedon, widow of René de Montéjan, and a lady of honour to Catherine de’ Medici when Dauphiness, took a prominent part in the last wars of Francis I.’s reign, and survived till 1565. The latter, generally known at Court by the name of Canaples, was a gentleman of the chamber and an especial favourite of Francis I. Brantôme says of him in his _Homines Illustres_ that he was “a valiant lord and the strongest man of arms that in those days existed in all Christendom, for he broke a lance, no matter its strength, as easily as though it were a mere switch, and few were able to withstand him.” In 1525 the Prince of Poix married a Demoiselle d’Acigné or Assigny, of _petite noblesse_, who in 1532 became a lady of honour to Queen Eleanor. She died in 1558, surviving her husband by three years. See Rouard’s rare _Notice dun Recueil de Crayons à la Bibliothèque Méjanes d’Aix_, Paris, 1863.--Ed.

Now this Prince conceived a deep affection for a widow lady called Madame de Neufchastel, (2) who was reputed the most beautiful woman it were possible to see; and if the Prince of Bel-hoste loved her well, his wife loved her no less, and would often send and bid her to dinner, for she deemed her so discreet and honourable, that, instead of being grieved by her husband’s love for her, she rejoiced to see him address his attentions to one so full of honour and virtue.

2 M. Lacroix thinks that this lady may be Jane de Hochberg, only daughter of Philip, sovereign Count of Neufchâtel. According to the custom of the time, she was commonly called Madame de Neufchâtel, despite her marriage with Louis d’Orléans, Duke of Longueville. She died in 1543, after a lengthy widowhood. We consider the accuracy of M. Lacroix’s surmise to be extremely doubtful, for the names of both the men figuring in the story are obviously altered so as to conceal their identity, and it is therefore not likely that Queen Margaret would designate the lady by her real name, and thus publish her shame to the world. The Madame de Neufchâtel she speaks of may really have been a Madame de Châteauneuf, Châteauvieux or Maisonneuve; or we may again be in presence of Margaret’s lady of honour, the widowed Blanche de Chastillon, _née_ de Tournon, to whom frequent reference has been made.--Ed.

This affection lasted for a great while, the Prince of Belhoste caring for all the lady’s affairs as though they were his own, and his wife doing no less. By reason, however, of her beauty many great lords and gentlemen earnestly sought the lady’s favour, some only for love’s sake, others for sake of the ring, for, besides being beautiful, she was also very rich.

Among the rest was a young gentleman, called the Lord des Cheriots, (3) who wooed her so ardently that he was never absent from her levee and couchée, and was also with her as much as possible during the day. This did not please the Prince of Belhoste, who thought that a man of such poor estate, and so lacking in grace, did not deserve an honourable and gracious reception, and he often made remonstrances about it to the lady. She, however, being one of Eve’s daughters, (4) excused herself by saying that she spoke with every one in general, and that their own affection was the better concealed, since she never spoke more with one than with another.

3 “Des Cheriots” (occasionally Des Cheriotz in the MS.) may be a play upon the name of D’Escars, sometimes written Des Cars. According to La Curne de Ste. Palaye _car_ as well as _char_ signified chariot. The D’Escars dukedom is modern, dating from 1815, and in the time of Francis I. the family was of small estate. Some members of it may well have filled inferior offices about the court, as in 1536 a Demoiselle Suzanne d’Escars married Geoffrey de Pompadour, who was both a prothonotary and cupbearer to Francis I., and lived to become Governor of the Limousin under Charles IX.--M. and Ed.

4 We take this expression from MS. 1520. Ours says, “a daughter of the Duke,” which is evidently an error.--L.

Albeit, after some time, this Lord des Cheriots so pressed her that, more through his importunity than through love, she promised to marry him, begging him, however, not to urge her to reveal the marriage until her daughters were wedded. After this the gentleman was wont to go with untroubled conscience to her chamber at whatsoever hour he chose, and none but a waiting-woman and a serving-man had knowledge of the matter.

When the Prince perceived that the gentleman was growing more and more familiar in the house of her whom he so dearly loved, he took it in ill-part, and could not refrain from saying to the lady--

“I have always prized your honour like that of my own sister, and you are aware of the honourable manner in which I have addressed you, and the happiness that I have in loving a lady as discreet and virtuous as yourself; but did I think that another who deserves it not could win by importunity that which I am not willing to crave, contrary to your own desire, this would be unendurable to me, and in the like degree dishonouring to you. I tell you this because you are beautiful and young, and although hitherto of good repute, are now beginning to gain a very evil fame. Even though he be not your equal in birth or fortune, and have less influence, knowledge and address, yet it were better to have married him than to give all men matter for suspicion. I pray you, therefore, tell me whether you are resolved to love him, for I will not have him as fellow of mine. I would rather leave you altogether to him, and put away from me the feelings that I have hitherto borne you.”

The poor lady, fearful of losing his affection, thereupon began to weep, and vowed to him that she would rather die than wed the gentleman of whom he had spoken, but (she added) he was so importunate that she could not help his entering her chamber at a time when every one else did so.

“Of such times as those,” said the Prince, “I do not speak, for I can go as well as he, and see all what you are doing. But I have been told that he goes after you are in bed, and this I look upon as so extraordinary that, if you should continue in this mode of life without declaring him to be your husband, you will be disgraced more than any woman that ever lived.”

She swore to him with all the oaths she could utter that the other was neither her husband nor her lover, but only as importunate a gentleman as there well could be.

“Since he is troublesome to you,” said the Prince, “I promise you that I will rid you of him.”

“What!” asked the lady. “Would you kill him?”

“No, no,” said the Prince, “but I will give him to understood that it is not in such a place as this, not in such a house as the King’s, that ladies are to be put to shame. And I swear to you by the faith of the lover that I am, that if, after I have spoken with him, he does not correct himself, I will correct him in such a manner as to make him a warning to others.”

So saying he went away, and on leaving the room failed not to meet the Lord des Cheriots on his way in. To him he spoke after the fashion that you have heard, assuring him that the first time he was found there after an hour at which gentlemen might reasonably visit the ladies, he would give him such a fright as he would ever remember. And he added that the lady was of too noble a house to be trifled with after such a fashion.

The gentleman protested that he had never been in the room except in the same manner as the rest, and, if the Prince should find him there, he gave him full leave to do his worst.

One day afterwards, when the gentleman believed the Prince’s words to have been forgotten, he went to see his lady in the evening, and remained sufficiently late.

The Prince [that same evening] told his wife that Madame de Neufchastel had a severe cold, upon hearing which the worthy lady begged that he would visit her on behalf of them both, and make excuse for herself, since she could not go by reason of a certain matter that she must needs attend to in her room.

The Prince waited until the King was in bed, and then went to give the lady good-evening, but as he was going up a stairway he met a serving-man coming down, who, on being asked how his mistress did, swore that she was in bed and asleep.

The Prince went down the stairway, but, suspecting that the servant had lied, looked behind and saw him going back again with all speed. He walked about the courtyard in front of the door to see whether the servant would return. A quarter of an hour later he perceived him come down again and look all about to see who was in the courtyard.

Forthwith the Prince was convinced that the Lord des Cheriots was in the lady’s chamber, but through fear of himself durst not come down, and he therefore again walked about for a long-while.

At last, observing that the lady’s room had a casement which was not at all high up, and which looked upon a little garden, he remembered the proverb which says, “When the door fails the window avails,” and he thereupon called a servant of his own, and said to him--

“Go into the garden there behind, and, if you see a gentleman come down from the window, draw your sword as soon as he reaches the ground, clash it against the wall, and cry out, ‘Slay! slay!’ Be careful, however, that you do not touch him.”

The servant went whither his master had sent him, and the Prince walked about until three hours after midnight.

When the Lord des Cheriots heard that the Prince was still in the yard, he resolved to descend by the window, and, having first thrown clown his cloak, he then, by the help of his good friends, leapt into the garden. As soon as the servant saw him, he failed not to make a noise with his sword, at the same time crying, “Slay! slay!” Upon this the poor gentleman, believing it was his [the servant’s] master, was in such great fear that, without thinking of his cloak, he fled as quickly as he was able.

He met the archers of the watch, who wondered greatly to see him running in this fashion, but he durst say nothing to them, except to beg them to open him the gate [of the castle], or else to lodge him with themselves until morning. And this, as they had not the keys, they did.

Then the Prince went to bed, and, finding his wife asleep, awoke her saying--

“Guess, my wife, what hour it is.’’

“I have not heard the clock strike since I went to bed,” she replied.

“It is three hours after midnight,” said he.

“If that be so,” said his wife, “where have you been all this time? I greatly fear that your health will be the worse for it.”

“Sweetheart,” said the Prince, “watching will never make me ill when I am engaged in preventing those who try to deceive me from going to sleep.”

So saying, he began to laugh so heartily that his wife begged him to tell her of the matter. This he did at length, showing her the wolf’s skin (4) which his servant had brought him. After making merry at the expense of the hapless lovers, they went to sleep in gentle tranquillity, while the other two passed the night in torment, fearing and dreading lest the affair should be revealed.

However, the gentleman, knowing right well that he could not use concealment with the Prince, came to him in the morning when he was dressing to beg that he would not expose him, and would give orders for the return of his cloak.

The Prince pretended that he knew nothing of the matter, and put such a face on it that the gentleman was wholly at a loss what to think. But in the end he received a rating that he had not expected, for the Prince assured him that, if ever he went to the lady’s room again, he would tell the King of it, and have him banished the Court.

“I pray you, ladies, judge whether it had not been better for this poor lady to have spoken freely to him who did her the honour of loving and esteeming her, instead of leading him by her dissimulation to prove her in a way that brought her so much shame.”

“She knew,” said Geburon, “that if she confessed the truth she would wholly lose his favour, and this she on no account desired to do.”