The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 21

There was a Queen of France who in her household maintained many maidens of good and illustrious families. Amongst others there was one named Rolandine, who was the Queen's near kinswoman, but for some discontent she had conceived with her father she gave her not over-pleasant entertainment. This girl, not being of the prettiest or the ugliest, was yet so discreet and virtuous that several great personages had asked her in marriage, but met with a cold answer, for her father loved money so well that he made nothing of the advancement of his daughter, and the Queen her mistress, as I have said, held her in such small favour that they who were fain to gain her good grace asked not Rolandine of her. So by her father's neglect and the Queen's misliking the poor girl stayed a long while without being married. And being sad at heart on this account, not so much that she desired to be married as for shame that she was not, she gave herself up wholly to God, leaving behind her all the pomps and vanities of the Court, and her sole delight was in prayer and in the doing of needlework. So in this quiet manner of living her young years were past, and they were as well and virtuously spent as one could desire. Now there was at Court a young gentleman who carried on an exceeding noble coat the bar sinister, though as pleasant a comrade and as honest a man as any, but mighty poor, and for comeliness he had so little that none but she would have chosen him for a lover. For a long while he had lived without a mate, but since one unfortunate seeks out another, he addressed himself to Rolandine, seeing that their fortunes, complexions, and estates were all alike. And while they made complaint to one another of their mischances, they became great friends; and finding themselves to be partakers in the same lot, they sought one another out everywhere, and in this manner was engendered a great and lasting acquaintanceship between them. But those who had beheld Rolandine afore so retired that she spoke to no one, now seeing her incessantly with this gentleman, were mightily scandalised thereat, and told her gouvernante that she should ​not endure their long talks together. She therefore made remonstrance to Rolandine, telling her that all men took in bad part that she spoke so much to one who was not rich enough for a husband, nor handsome enough for a sweetheart. Rolandine, who had always suffered reproof for her austerity and not her worldliness, said to her gouvernante: "Alas, mother, you see that I cannot have a husband of like estate with myself, and as for those who are young and comely, I have always fled them, lest perchance I fall into the same pit into which others have fallen. And since I find, as you know, this gentleman to be a prudent man and a virtuous, and that his discourse is only on good and honourable things, what wrong have I done in consoling myself in my weariness to those who have spoken to you?" The poor old woman, who loved her mistress more than herself, said to her: "Mistress, I am well persuaded that you speak the truth, and that the treatment you have had of your father and the Queen is not according to your deserts. Yet, since men handle your honour in this fashion, were he your own brother, you would do well to separate yourself from him." Rolandine, weeping, replied to her: "Mother, I will do according to your counsel, but it is a strange thing not to have any matter of consolation in the world." The gentleman, as was his custom, came to talk with her, but she declared to him all that her gouvernante had said, and with tears implored him that he would be content not to hold parley with her until this rumour was overpast; and this at her request he did.

But during this estrangement, having both lost their consolation, they began to feel a torment that was new to both of them. She ceased not to pray to God, to go on pilgrimages, and to observe duly the fasts and days of abstinence; for love, till now unknown to her, made her so unquiet that she had not rest for a single hour. The gentleman was in no less pitiful case; but he, who had already determined in his heart to love her and endeavour to get her for his wife, thinking both of love and the honour he would have if he succeeded, conceived that he must seek means of speaking with her, and, above all, of winning over the gouvernante. This he did, making remonstrance to her of the misery of her poor mistress, from whom they were fain to take away all ​manner of consolation. At this the old woman wept, and thanked him for the honourable friendship he had for her mistress. And they took counsel together how he might best speak with her, and the plan was for Rolandine to often feign to be sick of the megrims, in which noise is hurtful; and when her fellows went into the Queen's chamber, they two could stay by themselves, and then he could talk with her. With this the gentleman was quite content, and altogether ruled himself by the advice of the gouvernante in such sort that when he would he talked with his sweetheart. But this lasted not for a long while; for the Queen, bearing no great love for her, asked what Rolandine did in her room. And though one said it was by reason of her sickness, another would have it she stayed in her room because parley with the gentleman aforesaid made the megrims to pass over. The Queen, who esteemed the venial sins of others in her mortal, made seek her out, and strictly charged her that she should not speak with this gentleman, unless it were in the presence or in the great hall. The girl made no sign, but answered: "If I thought he was displeasing to you, I would never have spoken with him." Natheless she resolved within herself to search out some other means of which the Queen should know nothing, and this she accomplished. For on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays she fasted and stayed in her room with her gouvernante, and there had time, while her fellows supped, for holding parley with him whom she began to love exceedingly. And the more they were constrained to cut short their speech, the more affection was there in it; for they took time by stealth as does a robber something of great price. But the matter was not kept so secretly that a servant did not see him go into her room on a fast day, who told his tale in a quarter where it was not concealed from the Queen. And she was so wroth thereat, that no more durst the gentleman enter into the maid's room; but so as not altogether to lose this blessing of speech, he often made pretence of going on a journey, returning at eventide to the castle church in the gear of a Grey Friar or a Jacobin, and so well disguised that none recognised him; and thither went Rolandine and her gouvernante. And he, perceiving the great love she bore him, feared not to say: "You see the risk in which, for your sake, I put my life, and that the Queen has for​bidden us to speak together. And also consider of what sort is your father, who thinks not in any manner of marrying you. He has already refused many a good match, in such fashion that I know not any from far or near who can have you. I know well that I am poor, and that you cannot marry a gentleman of my estate; but if love and goodwill were accounted as great treasure, I should think myself the richest man in the world. God has given you riches, and you are in the likelihood of having still more, and if I were so happy as to be chosen by you, I would be your faithful husband, lover, and follower unto my life's end. But if you chose one of equal estate, a thing difficult for you, he would be to you as a master and would regard your goods more than yourself, and the beauty of others more than your virtuousness; and, while he enjoyed the usufruct of your wealth, he would not treat you as you deserve. The desire I have of this contentment, and my fear lest another possess himself of it, cause me to implore you that on the same day you make me happy and yourself the best satisfied and best entreated wife that ever was." Rolandine hearing the discourse that she herself had determined to hold with him, replied with a well-pleased face: "I am glad that you have made this beginning, for I have for a long time been resolved to speak with you to this intent, and have thought upon the matter for the two years in which I have known you, never ceasing to place before me all manner of conclusions both for and against. But since I confess that I wish to enter into this estate of matrimony, it is now full time that I begin and chose someone with whom I may live with a contented mind. I have not found one, be he rich, comely, or of noble blood with whom my heart and mind could be in such accord as with you; for I know that in marrying you I shall do God no displeasure, but rather follow his commands. As for my father, he has done so little for my good and so much to my hurt, that the law will have me marry and by no means lose mine inheritance. As for the Queen my mistress, I shall not make it a point of conscience to do her a pleasure and God a displeasure; since she has done nothing but hinder me from having any blessing I might have had in my youth. But to the intent that you may understand that my love is bottomed upon virtue and honour, you shall promise me that, if I take you in ​marriage, you will not endeavour the consummation thereof till that my father is dead or I bring him to consent." This promised willingly the gentleman, and they exchanged rings and kissed one another in the church before God, whom they had as witness to their promise; and between them there passed no other familiarity, save kissing.

This small contentment filled with joy the hearts of these two perfect lovers, and they were for some time without seeing but in full security of one another. Now there was no place in which glory might be gained to which the gentleman was not fain to go, since he could not account himself for a poor man, God having given to him so rich a wife; and while he was away she kept their perfect love so in her heart, that all others were as nothing to her. And although there were they who asked her in marriage, they had no answer from her but that, since she had lived such a long while unmarried, she had no wish ever to be married. This answer came to the ears of so many folk that the Queen heard thereof, and asked her wherefore she gave it. And Rolandine said that it was given from obedience to her, who had never desired her to be married to any man who could have made honourable provision for her; and that age and patience had made her resolve to content herself with her present estate. And to all who spoke to her on this manner she gave the same reply. But when the wars were over and the gentleman was returned to Court, she by no means spoke to him before other folk, but would go always to a certain church where, under pretext of confession, she would parley with him; for the Queen had charged both him and her that they should not speak to one another on pain of their lives, except it were in some great assembly. But honourable love, knowing nothing of such charges, was more ready to find means of speech than was the enemy to spy it out; and he, concealing himself under the habit of every order of monks he could think of, they continued in this pleasant fashion till that the King went to his pleasure house near Tours. In that place there was no church to which the ladies could go on foot save only the one pertaining to the castle, and that so badly designed for their purpose that there was no hiding-place or confessional in it in which the confessor could not be clearly recognised. Natheless, if opportunity failed them on one side, ​love found them other and easier, for there came to Court a lady nearly related to the lover of Rolandine. And she with the young prince her son were lodged in the King's household, and the prince's room stood out beyond the rest of the house, in such a manner that, from his window, it was possible to see and talk with Rolandine, for the windows were at the angle where the two parts of the house joined one another. And in this room of hers, that stood above the King's Hall, there were lodged with her all the ladies who were her fellows. And she, ofttimes seeing the prince at his window, by her gouvernante advertised her husband of it; whereupon, after well observing the place, he feigned to take great delight in the reading of a book concerning the Knights of the Round Table, which was in the prince's room. And when all were gone to dinner he prayed a body-servant to let him come and read, and to shut him up in the room, and keep good watch over the door. The man, knowing him for a kinsman of his master and one to be trusted, let him read as much as he would. On the other hand Rolandine would come to her window, and that she might the longer stay there, feigned to have a diseased leg, and dined and supped so early that she went no more to dinner with the other ladies. She likewise set herself to make a quilt of crimson silk, which she fixed at the window, whereat she was fain to be alone, and when she saw there was no one at hand she held parley with her husband, who answered her in such a voice that could not be heard by others. And when she saw any folk she would cough and make some sign to him, so that he might get him gone in good time. They that played the spy on them were persuaded that all love passages were over, for she never stirred from a room whither of a certainty he could not come, since he was altogether forbidden to enter it. But one day the prince's mother, being in her son's room, placed herself at the window where was the great book of Romances, and she had not been there a long while before one of Rolandine's companions saw her and spoke to her. The lady asked her how fared Rolandine, and the girl replied that she could see for herself if it were her pleasure, and made Rolandine come to the window in her nightcap. So, after speaking about her sickness, each went back to her own place. The lady, looking at the great book of the Round Table, said to the servant who ​had charge of It: "I marvel how young folk can waste their time in the reading of such folly!" The man answered that he marvelled still more that men of age and of repute for wisdom were exceedingly delighted with it; and as a matter for astonishment told her how the gentleman, her kinsman, stayed at the window four or five hours every day to read in this fine book aforesaid. Straightway the reason of it came into the lady's mind, and she charged the servant to hide himself close at hand and take account of what happened. This he did, and found this gentleman's book to be the window whither Rolandine came and spoke to him, and heard many a love-passage they thought to have kept altogether secret. On the morrow he bore this to his mistress, who sent for the gentleman, and after chiding him, forbade him any more to be in that place; and in the evening she spoke to Rolandine, threatening her that, if she continued in this foolish love, she would tell the Queen of all her doings. Rolandine, no whit affrayed, swore that after her mistress's forbidding her she had never spoken to him, let them say what they would, and she called her fellows and servants to witness that such was the truth. And for the matter of the window, she denied to have spoken there to the gentleman; but he, fearing the thing was made known, withdrew himself from the danger, and was a long time without returning to Court, but not without writing to Rolandine in such subtle fashion that, howsoever much the Queen might play the spy, there was not a week in which she did not twice get news of him.

And when a monkish messenger, who was the first he had used, failed him, he sent her a little page, now dressed in one colour and now in another. And he would stop at the doors, through which all the ladies were wont to pass, and give her the letters privily in the press. But one day, the Queen going into the country, a certain one whose charge it was to look after this affair, recognised the page and ran after him; but he, who was of keen wit, suspecting that he would be searched, entered the house of a poor woman who had her pot on the fire, and forthwith burnt up the letters. The gentleman followed him up and stripped him quite naked, and thoroughly searched his vesture, but found nothing, and so let him go. Whereupon the old woman asked the gentleman ​why he had searched the boy. He said to her: "To find certain letters which I thought he had carried." "By no means could you have found them," said the woman, "so well were they hidden." "I pray you," said he, "tell me in what slit they are hidden," having a good hope of getting them back. But when he understood that the fire was the hiding place, he knew the page to have been the keener of the two, and made report of the whole matter to the Queen. And from henceforth Rolandine's husband could no more avail himself of the page; so he sent an old servant, who, forgetting the death that he knew well the Queen threatened against those who intermeddled with this matter, undertook to carry letters to Rolandine. And when he was entered in unto the castle where she was, he set himself to watch by a door at the foot of the grand staircase whither all the ladies passed; but a servant who before had seen him straightway knew him, and told the Queen's master of the household, who presently came to seek him and clap him up. But the messenger, prudent and wary, seeing they looked at him from far off, turned himself to the wall, as if for a necessary occasion, and tearing up the letter into as small pieces as he could, threw them behind a door. Forthwith he was taken and searched in every way; but when they could find nothing they asked him on his oath if he had not brought letters, using with him all manner of threats and persuasions to make him to confess the truth; but promising or threatening, it was all one, and they none the wiser. Report of this came to the Queen, and certain of the company were of the opinion that it would be well to look behind the door near which he was taken; and this being done they found that they sought—namely, the pieces of the letter. Then was summoned the King's confessor, who, after putting the pieces in order on a table, read the letter at length; and so was brought to light the truth concerning the concealed marriage, for the gentleman called Rolandine nothing but wife. The Queen, who had no mind to cover her neighbour's misdeeds, as she ought to have done, made a great noise of it, and commanded that every way should be tried to make the poor man confess the truth of the letter; and when it was shown to him he could not deny it, but whatever they said or showed to him he would say no more. Those who had charge of him then led him to the bank ​of the river and put him in a sack, saying that he had lied to God and the Queen against the proven truth. He, who had rather lose his life than make accusation against his master, asked of them a confessor, and after easing his conscience as well as might be, he said to them: "Good sirs, I pray you tell my lord that I commend to him the life of my wife and children, for with hearty goodwill I give my life for his service. Now do your pleasure on me, for no word will I utter against my master. Thereupon, all the more to affright him, they threw him bound up in the sack into the river, calling to him: "Tell the truth and your life shall be spared." But perceiving that he answered them not a word, they drew him from the water and brought the report of it to the Queen, who said that neither the King her husband nor herself had such good fortune in their servants as a man who had not wherewithal to pay them. And she would fain have drawn him into her service, but he would by no means of his own will leave his master. Natheless, by the leave of the said master, he took service under the Queen, where he lived in happiness and good contentment.

And the Queen being acquainted with the truth of the marriage by the gentleman's letter, made summon Rolandine, and with a wrathful countenance calling her wretch in place of cousin, laid before her the shame she had done her father's house, her kinsfolk, and her mistress, in marrying without her leave or commandment. Rolandine, who for a long while had known the small love the Queen bore her, gave her as little in return. And since love was wanting between them neither had fear any place, and Rolandine thought likewise that this rebuke before several persons did not proceed so much from love as from a desire to do her an open shame, the Queen taking more pleasure in chiding her than grief at seeing her in fault. So with a face as glad and assured as the Queen's was wrathful and troubled, she replied: "Mistress, did you not plainly know your own heart and the manner of it, I would set before you the ill-will you have for a long time borne against my father and myself, but, this you know so well that it will not appear marvellous to you that all the world has a suspicion of it; and as for me, I have felt this intent of yours to my great hurt. For, if it had been your pleasure to favour me as you do those ​who are not so near akin as I, I should now have been married both to your honour and mine, but you have left me as one altogether deprived of your grace, so that all the good matches, I might have made are passed away before my eyes, by reason of my father's neglect and the small account you make of me. At this I fell into such despair, that if my health allowed of it, I had entered into the religious life, and so escaped from the continual sorrows your severity laid upon me. In this sad case one sought me out, who would have been of as gentle blood as myself, if the love of two persons were to be as much esteemed as the wedding-ring, for you know that his father was before mine in precedency. And he for a long while has courted me and loved me; but you, mistress, who never pardon me any petty fault, nor praise me for any good deed; although you well knew that it was not my custom to listen to worldly love passages, and that I was altogether given up to devotion; have found it a strange thing that I should speak with a gentleman as unfortunate as myself, from whom I neither wished nor sought anything except some matter of consolation. And when I saw this consolation taken away from me, I was resolved to take as much pains to gain it as you took to deprive me of it; whereupon we promised each other marriage, and confirmed the promise with a ring. Methinks, therefore, you do me great wrong to call me wicked, since in this great and perfect love, in which I found the consolation I longed for, there passed between us nothing worse than kissing, all else being deferred by me till, by the grace of God, my father's heart should be inclined to consent thereto. Sure am I that I have in no way offended God nor my conscience, for I waited till the age of thirty years to see what you end my father would do for me, having kept my youth so chastely and virtuously that no living man can cast anything in my teeth. And using the reason given to me by God, seeing myself growing old, and despairing of finding a match according to my estate, I resolved to marry one according to my wish; not for the satisfaction of the lust of the flesh, since there has been no carnal consummation; nor for the lust of the eyes, since you know he is not comely; nor for the pride of life, he being poor and of small reputation. But I have taken account alone of the virtue that is in him, the which all men are constrained to laud and magnify; also of the ​great love he bears me, by reason of which I hope to find with him a life of quiet and good treatment. And after weighing duly both the good and the evil that may come of it, I have fixed on him who seems to me the best, and with whom I have determined for the last two years to pass the remainder of my days. And so steadfast is this my resolve, that not all the torments I may endure—no, not death itself—can turn me from it. Wherefore I pray you to excuse that which in truth is very excusable, and leave me to live in that peace which I hope to find with him."

The Queen, seeing her face to be so steadfast and her words so true, could not answer in reason, but, continuing in wrath to reproach her, at last fell to weeping, and said: "Wretch that you are, in place of humbling yourself before me, and repenting of your great fault, you speak dry-eyed and audaciously, and so make manifest the obstinacy and hardness of your heart. But if the King and your father will listen to me, they will put you in a place where you will be constrained to talk after another fashion." "Mistress," answered Rolandine, "since you accuse me of speaking audaciously, I will be silent, if it is not your pleasure that I should reply to you." And being commanded to speak, she said to the Queen: "It is not my part to speak audaciously and without due reverence to you who are my mistress and the greatest princess in Christendom; and this it was by no means my intent to do, but since I can call no advocate to speak for me, save the truth that is known only by me, I am constrained to tell it plainly and without fear, hoping that when you know it you will not esteem me what it has been your pleasure to name me. I am not afraid of any living creature hearing how I have kept myself in this matter, since I know that I have thereby offended neither God nor my honour. And since I am persuaded that He who sees my heart is on my side, wherefore should I fear? And having this Judge for me, shall I of His subjects be afraid? And for what cause should I weep, since neither my conscience nor my heart do at all reprove me?—nay, so far am I from repentance, that if I could make a new beginning I would do even as I have done. But you, indeed, have good cause for weeping, as much for the wrongs you did me in my youth as for that you now reproach me before all for a thing which is rather to be imputed ​to you than me. If I had justly offended God, the King, you, my kinsfolk, and my conscience, I should be hard of heart if I did not repent with weeping. But for so befitting and holy an agreement, in which no fault can be found save that you have too soon blazed it abroad, showing thereby that you have a greater desire for my dishonour than for preserving the good repute of your house and kinsfolk, I by no means ought to weep; yet, mistress, since such is your pleasure, I will not gainsay you; for whatever pains you lay upon me, I being innocent, will take no less pleasure in the enduring of them than you in the inflicting. Wherefore give what commands you please to my father, and I am well assured that he will not fail you, and as far as my ill is affected he will be altogether your creature; and as obedient to your will he has hitherto neglected my good, so he will be quick to obey you for my evil. But I have a Father in heaven, who, I am assured, will give me patience to bear all your torments, and in Him alone do I put my trust."

At this the Queen was still more wrathful, and commanded that she should be taken out of her sight and put in a room by herself, where she might have speech with no one. But she did not deprive her of her gouvernante, by whose means she let her husband know her case, and that which she thought it was best for him to do. And he, thinking the deeds he had done in the King's service might avail him something, came post haste to Court and found the King a-hunting, and told him the truth of the matter, entreating him to do so much for a poor gentleman as to appease the Queen in such sort that the marriage might be consummated. The King replied nothing save: "Do you assure me that you have taken her to wife?" "Ay, sire," said the gentleman, "by word and gift alone; and if it please you, we'll make an ending to it." The King, lowering his head, and without saying a word more, returned forthwith to his castle, and when he was come thither gave charge to the captain of the guards that he should take the gentleman prisoner. Natheless, one of his acquaintance, who knew the King's intent by his visage, counselled him to get him gone and stay in a house hard-by; and if the King made search for him, as he suspected he would, he would presently let him know so that he might fly the realm; but if things were softened down he would send word for him to come back. ​And the gentleman, trusting in his friend, made such good speed that the captain of the guards could not at all find him.

The King and Queen took counsel together what they should do with this poor lady, who had the honour of being akin to them, and by the advice of the Queen it was determined that she should be sent back to her father, who was informed of the whole truth. But before she was sent they made several weighty doctors of the Church and Council hold parley with her, to the intent that since her marriage was a matter only of words, it could easily be dissolved by the agreement of both parties, this being the King's will on the matter, to preserve the honour of his house. Her reply was that in all things she was ready to obey the King save in cases of conscience, but those whom God hath joined together it is lawful for no man to put asunder. So she prayed them to tempt her no more, saying that if love and good-will, founded on the fear of God, are the true and sure bonds of marriage, she was so fast in bonds that neither fire, sword, nor water could burst them, but death alone, to whom and to no other she would give up her ring and her oath, and so entreated them to speak no more on't; for she stood so firm in her resolve that she had rather die and keep faith than live and break it. So these doctors aforesaid carried back to the King her answer; and when the King and Queen saw that there was no way to make her renounce her husband, they sent her back to her father in such mean and pitiful sort that they who beheld her pass by wept to see it. And though she was in fault, so grievous was the punishment and so great her steadfastness, that this fault of hers was commonly accounted as a virtue. And her father, being advised of this her coming, would by no means see her, but made bear her to a castle in a forest, the which he had aforetime built for a reason well worthy to be told. And there he kept her for a long while, saying that if she would renounce her husband he would hold her for his daughter and set her free. All the same she remained firm, and preferred to remain in the bonds both of prison and marriage than to have all the freedom in the world without her husband. And by the manner of her countenance one would have judged her pains to have been most pleasant pastimes, for she bore them for the sake of him whom she loved.

​And as to men, what shall I say concerning them? Her husband, so deeply under obligation to her, fled to a country where he had many friends, I would say Germany. And there he showed well by the lightness of his disposition that not so much had he paid court to Rolandine by reason of a true and perfect love, as by reason of his covetousness and ambition. For he became amorous of a German lady, and forgot his letters to her who for his sake had borne so great tribulation. And whereas no ill-fortune, however rigorous, had hindered them from writing to one another, till this foolish and wicked love of his, so grievous was it to Rolandine that she knew no rest. And seeing his letters that they were cold and altogether changed from what they had been, she suspected that some new love separated her husband from her, and had done that which all the torments and pains of her could not effect. But since perfect love bottoms not judgment upon suspicion, she found means to secretly send a servant in whom she trusted, not to write or speak with her husband, but to spy out his ways and discover the truth. And this servant, having returned from his journey, told her that of a surety he had found him paying court to a German lady, and that the common report was that he would endeavour to marry her, since she was very rich. These tidings gave such sorrow to the heart of Rolandine that she fell grievously sick, and they who knew the reason of it told her, on behalf of her father, that after this great wrong done her she would do right to renounce him, and strove to bring her to this opinion. But notwithstanding that she was in very great torment, yet in no way would she change her purpose, and showed in this last temptation the greatness of her love and virtue. For as love grew less on his side, so it grew more on hers, and when she knew that in her heart alone now dwelt the love that formerly was between the two, she was resolved to preserve it until the death of the one or the other. Wherefore the Divine Goodness, which is perfect charity and true love, had pity on her grief and her long-suffering, so that after a few days her husband died while courting another woman. And being well informed of this by those who had seen him laid in the ground, she sent to her father entreating him that he would come and speak to her. The father, who had never spoken to her since she was first ​put in bonds, went forthwith, and after having heard her just conclusions, in place of reproving her, or as he had often threatened, of killing her, he took her in his arms, and weeping, said: "My daughter, you are more in the right than I; for, if there have been any fault in this matter, it is I that am the chief cause thereof; but since God has so ordered it, I wish to make satisfaction for what has passed." And after that he had brought her to his house, he treated her as his eldest daughter, and she was asked in marriage by a prudent and virtuous gentleman who bore the arms and name of their house. And he held Rolandine, with whom he often talked, in such esteem that he gave her praise where others had but blame for her, since he knew her end and aim to have been virtue. Which marriage, being to the mind of the father, was before long concluded. It is true that a brother of hers, the sole heir of their house, would give her no portion, saying that she had disobeyed her father, and after his death entreated her in such sort that her husband, who was a younger son, and herself, had much ado to live. But God provided for them, since the brother who wished to keep all, by his sudden death, in a single day lost all, both of his and hers. So was she made heiress to a good and rich estate, in which, with her husband's love, she lived piously and honourably. And after having brought up two sons which God gave to them, she joyously rendered her soul to Him in whom she had always placed her trust.

"Now, ladies, let the men who say we are inconstant ever, show me an example of a husband like this wife, and of as good faith and steadfastness. So sure am I that it will be a hard matter for them, that I prefer to hold them quit of it, than put them to the pain of this endeavour. But as to you, ladies, I exhort you, for the better retention of your renown, either not to love at all, or with as perfect a love as was that of Rolandine. And beware lest any say she did wrong to her honour, for by her steadfastness, she worked to the increasing of ours." "Faith, Parlamente," said Oisille, "you have told us the story of a woman with a great and honourable heart; but that which adds to her glory is the disloyalty of her husband, who could leave her for another." "I think," said Longarine, "that this was the hardest to be borne of all her sorrows, for there is no grief so great but the united love of two cannot easily bear: ​but when the one fails in his duty, and leaves all the burden upon the other, then indeed it becomes unbearable." "You ought then to have compassion on us," said Geburon, "who carry the whole weight of love, which you will not so much as touch with the tips of your fingers." "Ah, Geburon," said Parlamente, "often the burdens of men and women are different. For the love of a woman, well bottomed upon God and her honour, is so good and reasonable a thing that he who falls therefrom is worthy to be accounted poltroon and villain before God and man. But the love of men for the most part is merely a matter of pleasure, into which women, ignorant of their evil intent, cast themselves all too soon; and when God shows them how vile are the hearts of those they esteem good, they are well advised to get them gone, with their honour and reputation, for 'soonest ended best mended.'" "This conclusion of yours is built upon mere fantasy," said Hircan; "if you would maintain by it that honourable women can with honour leave the love of men, and not men that of women, as if the hearts of them in anywise differed, as do their faces and gear. But as for their inclinations, I hold them to be much alike, save that the evil which is best hidden is the worst." To this Parlamente, somewhat angry, replied: "I know well that with you the best women are those whose wickedness is best known." "Let us leave this talk," said Simontault, "for whether we take the heart of man or the heart of woman the better of the two is nothing worth. But to whom will Parlamente give her vote, that we may hear some brave relation?" "I give it," said she, "to Geburon." "Since then," said he, "I made a beginning with Grey Friars, I will not forget the Benedictines, and a small matter which befel one of them in my time; nevertheless, if I tell you of a wicked monk, I wish not to hinder the esteem you bear the good ones. But since the Psalmist says: 'All men are liars,' and in another place: 'There is none that doeth good, no, not one,' methinks we must needs think of men as they really are. For, if there be any good in them, we must set it down to Him who is the giver of all good, and not to the creature wherein (by too much giving of praise and glory, or by believing that there is some good in themselves) most men are deceived. And to the end that you may believe that, under great austerity, it is possible for lust as great to be hidden, hear what happened in the time of King Francis the First."