[The Old Woman startled by the Waking of the Soldier]
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 Obédiencier de St. Just, and it was in the
church of St. Just that the Duke of Alençon 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 Antiquités et la fondation de la Métropole
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. Sépulcre.—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.”
[The Old Serving-woman explaining her Mistake
to the Duke and Duchess of Vendôme]
TALE LXVI.
The Duke of Vendôme and the Princess of Navarre, whilst
resting together one afternoon, were surprised by an old
serving-woman, who took them for a prothonotary and a damsel
between whom she suspected some affection; and, through this
fine justicement, a matter, of which intimates were
ignorant, was made known to strangers.
In the year when the Duke of Vendôme married the Princess of Navarre, (1) the King and Queen, their parents, after feasting at Vendôme, went with them into Guienne, and, visiting a gentleman’s house where there were many honourable and beautiful ladies, the newly married pair danced so long in this excellent company that they became weary, and, withdrawing to their chamber, lay down in their clothes upon the bed and fell asleep, doors and windows being shut and none remaining with them.
1 It was in October 1548, some eighteen months after Henry
II. had succeeded Francis I., that Anthony de Bourbon, Duke
of Vendôme, who after the King’s children held the first
rank in France, was married at Moulins to Margaret’s
daughter Jane of Navarre. The Duke was then thirty and Jane
twenty years old. “I never saw so joyous a bride,” wrote
Henry II. to Montmorency, “she never does anything but
laugh.” She was indeed well pleased with the match, the
better so, perhaps, as her husband had settled 100,000
livres on her, a gift which was the more acceptable by
reason of her extravagant tastes and love of display. Ste.
Marthe, in his Oraison Funèbre on Queen Margaret, speaks
of her daughter’s marriage as “a most fortunate
conjunction,” and refers to her son-in-law as “the most
valiant and magnanimous Prince Anthony, Duke of Vendôme,
whose admirable virtues have so inclined all France to love
and revere him, that princes and nobles, the populace, the
great and the humble alike, no sooner hear his name
mentioned than they forthwith wish him and beg God to bestow
on him all possible health and prosperity.”—Ed
Just, however, when their sleep was at its soundest, they were awakened by their door being opened from without, and the Duke drew the curtain and looked to see who it might be, suspecting indeed that it was one of his friends who was minded to surprise him. But he perceived a tall, old bed-chamber woman come in and walk straight up to their bed, where, for the darkness of the room, she could not recognise them. Seeing them, however, quite close together, she began to cry out—
“Thou vile and naughty wanton! I have long suspected thee to be what thou art, yet for lack of proof spoke not of it to my mistress. But now thy vileness is so clearly shown that I shall in no sort conceal it; and thou, foul renegade, who hast wrought such shame in this house by the undoing of this poor wench, if it were not for the fear of God, I would e’en cudgel thee where thou liest. Get up, in the devil’s name, get up, for methinks even now thou hast no shame.”
The Duke of Vendôme and the Princess hid their faces against each other in order to have the talk last longer, and they laughed so heartily that they were not able to utter a word. Finding that for all her threats they were not willing to rise, the serving-woman came closer in order to pull them by the arms. Then she at once perceived both from their faces and from their dress that they were not those whom she sought, and, recognising them, she flung herself upon her knees, begging them to pardon her error in thus robbing them of their rest.
But the Duke of Vendôme was not content to know so little, and rising forthwith, he begged the old woman to say for whom she had taken them. This at first she was not willing to do; but at last, after he had sworn to her never to reveal it, she told him that there was a girl in the house with whom a prothonotary (2) was in love, and that she had long kept a watch on them, since it pleased her little to see her mistress trusting in a man who was working this shame towards her. She then left the Prince and Princess shut in as she had found them, and they laughed for a long while over their adventure. And, although they afterwards told the story they would never name any of the persons concerned.
2 The office of apostolic prothonotary was instituted by
Pope Clement I., there being at first twelve such officers,
whose duty was to write the lives of the saints and other
apostolic records. Gradually their number so increased, that
in the fifteenth century the title of prothonotary had come
to be merely an honorary dignity, conferred as a matter of
course on doctors of theology of noble family, or otherwise
of note. In the role of Francis I.‘s household for 1522, we
find but one prothonotary mentioned, but in that for 1529
there are twelve. More than one of them might have been
called un letrado que no tenia muchas letras, as Brantôme
wrote of Thomas de Lescun, Prothonotary of Foix and
afterwards Marshal of France. “In those days,” adds the
author of Les Grands Capitaines Français, “it was usual
for prothonotaries and even for those of good family not to
have much learning, but to enjoy themselves, hunt, make love
and seduce the wives of the poor gentlemen who were gone to
the wars.”—OEuvres complètes de Brantôme, 8vo edit., vol.
ii. p. 144.—L. and Ed.
“You see, ladies, how the worthy dame, whilst thinking to do a fine deed of justice, made known to strange princes a matter of which the servants of the house had never heard.”
“I think I know,” said Parlamente, “in whose house it was, and who the prothonotary is; for he has governed many a lady’s house, and when he cannot win the mistress’s favour he never fails to have that of one of the maids. In other matters, however, he is an honourable and worthy man.”
“Why do you say ‘in other matters’?” said Hircan. “Tis for that very behaviour that I deem him so worthy a man.”
“I can see,” said Parlamente, “that you know the sickness and the sufferer, and that, if he needed excuse, you would not fail him as advocate. Yet I would not trust myself to a man who could not contrive his affairs without having them known to the serving-women.”
“And do you imagine,” said Nomerfide, “that men care whether such a matter be known if only they can compass their end? You may be sure that, even if none spoke of it but themselves, it would still of necessity be known.”
“They have no need,” said Hircan angrily, “to say all that they know.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, blushing, “they would not say it to their own advantage.”
“Judging from your words,” said Simontault, “it would seem that men delight in hearing evil spoken about women, and I am sure that you reckon me among men of that kind. I therefore greatly wish to speak well of one of your sex, in order that I may not be held a slanderer by all the rest.”
“I give you my place,” said Ennasuite, “praying you withal to control your natural disposition, so that you may acquit yourself worthily in our honour.”
Forthwith Simontault began—
“Tis no new thing, ladies, to hear of some virtuous act on your part which, methinks, should not be hidden but rather written in letters of gold, that it may serve women as an example, and give men cause for admiration at seeing in the weaker sex that from which weakness is prone to shrink. I am prompted, therefore, to relate something that I heard from Captain Robertval and divers of his company.”
