The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 16

In the time of the grand-master of Chaumont there lived in Milan a lady esteemed one of the most honourable in the town. She, being the widow of an Italian count, lived in the house of her brothers-in-law, without any wish of marrying again, and kept herself so wisely and virtuously that there was in the duchy neither Frenchman nor Italian who did not hold her in great repute. One day, on which her brothers-in-law and her sisters-in-law made entertainment for the grand-master of Chaumont, although it was not her custom, she was constrained to be present, and when the Frenchmen saw her they mightily extolled her beauty and grace, and above all one whose name I tell not, but it will suffice to know that there was not a Frenchman in Italy more worthy of love than he, for he was fulfilled with every brave and knightly grace. And although he saw this lady, that she was clad in black, and sat apart from the maidens with old women all around her, yet fearing neither man nor woman he set himself to talk with her, taking off his mask and leaving the dances to be in her company. And all the evening he stirred not from her side, talking to her and the old women, around, which he found more to his liking than if they had been the youngest and the fairest at Court, in such sort that when he must needs go, it seemed to him that he had scarcely sat down. And though he but held with the lady such common matter of discourse as was fit for the company to hear, yet she was well persuaded that he was desirous to be of her acquaintance, against which she was determined to guard as well as might be, and so neither at entertainment nor great assembly ​did he see her any more. Having made inquiry of her manner of living, he discovered that she went often to churches and convents, and he kept so good watch upon her that let her be as secret as she would, wherever she went he was there first, and would stay as long as he was able to see her, and all the while looking upon her in such a manner that she could not be ignorant of his love towards her. And for the avoiding of this she determined for some while to feign sickness and hear mass in her own house, at which the gentleman was sorely grieved, for he had lost the only means of seeing her. She, thinking to have put an end to that habit of his, returned to the churches as before, but love forthwith made it known to the French gentleman, and he became as devout as ever he was. And for fear lest she might a second time do something to his hindrance, or lest he might not have opportunity to make known his mind to her, one morning, when she thought herself shrewdly hidden away in a side chapel, he went to the end of the altar at which she was hearing mass, and seeing that she had no companions, just as the priest lifted up the Body of the Lord, he turned towards her, and in a gentle voice and affectionate, said to her: "Mistress, I will take Him whom the priest holds in his hands to my damnation if you are not the reason of my death, for though you deprive me of parley with you, yet you cannot be ignorant of the truth, since it is manifest in the languishment of my eyes and my face all amort." The lady, feigning to understand nothing, replied to him: "Thou shalt not take God's name in vain, but the poets say the gods laugh at the oaths and lies of lovers, wherefore ladies of honour should by no means be credulous or compassionate." Saying thus she arose and returned to her lodging.

Those who have had experiences like to this will be well assured that the gentleman was very wrathful. But he, whose heart never failed him, liked better to have had a bad answer than to have failed to declare his mind, the which for three years remained steadfast, and all the while he ceased not to pay suit to her by letters and by all manner of means, losing not so much as an hour. But during these three years he had no reply from her, since she fled from him as the hare from the wolf, not out of hatred, but for fear of her honour and reputation. And the cause was so plainly manifest to him that never before had he ​so vigorously pressed his suit. And after much refusal, pains, torments, and despair, seeing the greatness and perseverance of his love, the lady took pity on him, and granted to him that which he so much desired and had waited for so long. And when they had come to an agreement upon the ways and means, the French gentleman did not fail to risk his life by going to her house, and the risk was indeed a great one, seeing that all her kinsfolk were lodged in this same mansion. He, having no less craft than comeliness, brought it about so well that he got into her room at the appointed time, and found her lying by herself on a most rare bed. But as he made haste to doff his clothes that he might get into bed with her, he heard at the door a noise of voices speaking low, and the clash of swords as they touched the wall. His widow lady, with the face of a woman half dead, said to him: "In good sooth now are your life and my honour in as great peril as they can ever be, for I plainly hear my brothers, who seek you out that they may kill you. Wherefore I pray you hide yourself under the bed, that when they come and find you not I may reproach them for alarming me without a cause." The gentleman, who never yet had known fear, said to her: "And what manner of men are these your brothers to make an honest man to be afraid? Were all your kin to be here, I am well assured that they would not await so much as the fourth blow of my sword, wherefore rest you in your bed, and leave me to guard the door." And taking his cloak across his arm with his drawn sword in his hand, he opened the door to the intent that he might see close at hand the swords that made such a clashing. And when it was opened he saw two serving-maids, who, with two swords in each hand, had caused the tumult, and they said to him: "Sir, pardon us, since we had commandment from our mistress to do this, but from us you shall have no further hindrance." The gentleman, seeing then that they were women, did no more hurt to them than that, sending them to the devil, he shut the door in their faces, and got to bed with the lady as soon as he could, since fear had by no means lessened his love, even forgetting to ask the reason of all this, and thinking of nothing but the satisfying his desire. But seeing morning to be near at hand, he asked her to tell him wherefore she had done him so many evil turns, both in making him to wait so long and in ​this last affair of the swords and serving-maids. She, laughing, replied to him: "It was my fixed resolve never to love, and this I have kept throughout my widowhood; but your honourable address, from the day you first spoke to me, made me change my resolve and so love you as you have loved me. It is true that honour always guiding me would not allow my love to do that by which my good repute might suffer hurt. But like as the hart, wounded unto death, thinks in moving from one place to another to move from the ill it carries with it, so did I fly from church to church, thinking to escape that which was in my soul, but the proof of your perfect love has made honour come to an agreement with it. Yet to the end that I might be the more assured of placing my heart and my love in a perfect man, I was fain to make this last proof of you by means of my women. And I tell you that if, for the sake of your life or aught else, I had found you fearful enough to get under the bed, I was determined to rise and go into another room, without ever having to do with you. But since I found in you more beauty, grace, virtue, and bravery than I had been advised of, and since fear has no power at all to touch your heart or to chill your love towards me, I am resolved to cleave to you for the rest of my days, for in no better hands could I put my life and my honour than in him who in every way is without a match." And all as if the will of man was unchangeable, they promised and sware what lay not within their power—namely, perpetual love, which cannot arise or dwell in a man's heart. And only those women know this who have tried how long their passion lasts.

"Wherefore, ladies, if you are wise, you will be wary of us, as would the stag, if he had understanding, be wary of the hunter. For our glory, our happiness, and our contentment, is to see you captives, and to take from you that which you hold more dear than life." "What, Geburon," said Hircan, "since when have you turned preacher? Such was not aforetime the manner of your discourse." "It is true," replied Geburon, "that I have just now spoken the very opposite to the deliverances of my whole life; but since I am grown old and my teeth are too weak to chew the venison, I advise the young deer to beware of the huntsmen, that I may give satisfaction in my old age for the sins of my youth." "We thank ​you, Geburon," said Nomerfide, "for that you have given us this advice for our profit, but we cannot hold ourselves under great obligation to you, since such was not the manner of your discourse to her whom you loved; it is a sign therefore that you love us not, and do not wish that we should ever be loved. Yet we deem ourselves to the full as wise and virtuous as those whom you chased so in your youth, but it is ever the boast of old men that they were more prudent than those who come after them." "Yet, Nomerfide," said Geburon, "when the deceit of one of your lovers hath made you to understand the wickedness of men; in that hour will you believe that I have spoken the truth?" Oisille said to Geburon: "It seems to me that the gentleman whom you praise so much for his courage ought rather to be praised for the madness of his love, which is so strong a power that it maketh the most pitiful cowards in the world undertake things on which the bravest would think twice." Saffredent said to her: "If it were not that he thought the Italians a folk better at words than deeds, it seems to me he had had good occasion of fear." "Ay," said Oisille, "and if it were not for that fire at his heart that burnt up fear." "It seems to me," said Hircan, "that since you do not esteem the courage of him praiseworthy, you doubtless know some other deed of the same kind more worthy of praise." "It is true," said Oisille, "that he is praiseworthy, but I know of one more admirably brave." "I beseech you then," said Geburon, "to take my place and tell us of him." Oisille began: "If a man who, for his life and his lady's honour, showed his courage against the men of Milan, is accounted so brave, what will you call one, who, for no necessity laid upon him but from true and inborn courage, did the deed I am about to tell you?"