The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 32

King Charles, the Eighth of his name, sent into Germany a gentleman named Bernage, lord of Sivray, near Amboise, who to make good speed spared not to journey by day nor night, and so one evening came very late to a house and asked there for lodging. At this great difficulty was made, but when the master understood how great a king he served, he entreated him not to take in bad part the churlishness of his servants, since, by reason of certain kinsfolk of his wife, who were fain to do him a hurt, it was necessary that the house should be under strict ward. Then the aforesaid Bernage told him the reason of his embassage, which the gentleman offered to forward with all his might, and led him into his house, where he honourably lodged and entertained him.

It was now supper-time, and the gentleman brought him into a large room, bravely hung with tapestry work. And as ​the meats were set upon the table there came a woman from behind the tapestry, of a most surpassing beauty, but her head was shorn and the rest of her body was clothed in black gear of the German fashion. After that the gentleman had washed his hands with Bernage, water was borne to the lady, who when she had washed her hands sat herself down at the bottom of the table, without a word from her or to her. My lord de Bernage looked at her very attentively, and she seemed one of the comeliest women he ever had beheld, save that the manner of her countenance was pale and melancholic. And when she had eaten a little she asked for drink, and this was brought her by a servant in a most marvellous vessel, I would say a death's-head with the eyes closed up with silver, and so from this she drank three or four times. And her supper having come to an end she washed her hands, and with a reverence to the lord of the house she returned behind the tapestry without a word to anyone. Bernage was so astonished to see so strange a case that he fell into a thoughtful melancholy, which being perceived of the gentleman, he said to him: "I know well that you marvel within yourself at what you have seen done at this table; and for that I judge you to be an honourable man, I will not conceal the affair from you, to the intent that you may not think there is so great cruelty in me without a weighty cause. The lady you have seen is my wife, whom I loved as man never loved before, so much indeed that to wed her I forgot all fear and brought her here by force against the will of her kinsfolk. And she in like manner gave me so many evident proofs of her love that I would have risked ten thousand lives to bring her here as I did, to the delight of the pair of us, and we lived awhile in such quietness and contentment that I esteemed myself the most fortunate gentleman in all Christendom. But while I was away on a journey made for the sake of my honour, she so far forgot her virtuousness, her conscience, and the love she had for me, that she fell in love with a young gentleman whom I had brought up in my house, and this I perceived upon my coming home. Yet I loved her so well that I was not able to distrust her till experience gave belief unto my eyes, and with them I saw what I feared more than death. Then was my love turned to madness and my trust to despair; and so well did I play the spy upon her that ​one day, feigning to go out, I hid myself in the room which is now her dwelling-place. And very soon after she saw me go, she went away and made the young man come to her, and him I beheld handling her in such fashion as belonged to me alone. But when I saw him get upon the bed beside her, I came forth from my hiding-place, and, taking him between her very arms, there put him to death. And since the offence of my wife seemed to me so great that death would not suffice for her punishment, I appointed one that I deem is much more bitter than death to her: namely, to shut her up in the room where she had her greatest pleasures of him she loved more than me, where I have set all the bones of her lover in an aumbry, as a precious thing and worthy of safe keeping. And to the end that in eating and drinking she may not lose the memory of him, I have made serve her at table, with the head of that villain in place of a cup, and this in my presence, so that she may see living him whom she has made through her sin a mortal enemy, and dead for love of her him whom she preferred before me. And so, at dinner and supper she beholds the two things which should most make her to despair; the living enemy and the dead lover; and all through her own sin. For the rest, I treat her as myself, save that she goes shorn, for an array of hair doth not belong to a woman taken in adultery, nor the veil to an harlot. Wherefore her hair is cut, showing that she has lost the honour of virginity and purity. And if it be your pleasure to see her, I will take you there."

To this Bernage willingly agreed; and they went down the stair, and found her in a fine room, sitting alone before a fire. Then the gentleman drew a curtain that was before a high aumbry, and in it were hanging all the bones of the dead man. Bernage had a great desire to speak with the lady, but for fear of the husband durst not do it. He perceiving this, said to him: "An it please you to say anything to her, you shall see how admirably she talks." Forthwith Bernage said: "Mistress, your long-suffering and your torment are alike great. I hold you for the most wretched of all women." The lady, with tears in her eyes, graciously yet most humbly answered hm: "Sir, I confess my sin to be so great that all the ills the lord of this place (for I am not worthy that I should call him husband) can bestow upon me, are as nothing compared with my sorrow that I have done him a displeasure." So saying she fell to weeping ​bitterly; and the gentleman took Bernage by the arm and led him away. And very early on the morrow he went on to execute the charge given him of the King. But, in bidding the gentleman farewell, he could not refrain from saying to him: "Sir, the love I bear you, and the honour and privity you have used towards me in this your house, constrains me to tell you that, in my opinion, seeing the repentance of your poor wife, you should have compassion on her. Furthermore, you being still young have no children, and it would be a great pity that such a brave line as yours should come to an end, and they for whom, perchance, you have no great love, should be your heirs." The gentleman, who had resolved never again to speak to his wife, thought for a long while on what my lord de Bernage had said to him, and finding him to be in the right, promised that if she continued in her humble repentance he would one day have compassion on her. And so Bernage went forth on his embassage. And when he was returned to the King his master, he told him the whole matter, which the prince, having made inquiry, found to be as he had said. And among other things, Bernage having spoken of the lady's beauty, the King sent his painter, John of Paris, thither, that he might draw her to the life. This he did, and with the consent thereto of the husband, who, beholding her long repentance, and having a great desire for children, took pity on his wife, who with such humbleness had borne her punishment, and, taking her back to him, had of her many brave children.

"If all, ladies, in like case, drank out of like vessels, I am afraid that many a golden cup would be turned into a death's-head. God preserve us from the like, for if His goodness do not keep us, there is not one of us that may not fare worse. But having confidence in Him, He will have a care to them that confess they are not able to have a care to themselves; and they that trust in their own strength stand in jeopardy of being so tempted as to be constrained to confess their frailty. The high-minded I have often seen to stumble and to fall, whilst they that were of less reputation went safe and sound. To this intent is the old saw: What God keeps is well kept." "Her punishment," said Parlamente, "I deem mighty reasonable, for, when the crime is worse than death, so also should be the punishment." But Ennasuitte said: "I am by no means of your opinion, for I would rather look upon the bones of my ​lover all the days of my life than die for his sake, since there is nothing ill-done that cannot be amended, but when one is ended one cannot be amended." "How then would you mend shame?" said Longarine, "for you know that when a woman has done a deed of this kind her honour can by no means be repaired, do she what she may." "Prithee, then," answered Ennasuitte, "tell me whether the Magdalen has not now more honour among men than her sister, who was a maid." "I confess," said Longarine, "that she is praised of us for the great love she bore to Jesus Christ, and for her repentance; yet the name of Sinner abides with her always." "I care not," said Longarine, "how men call me, for if I be forgiven of God, and likewise of my husband, there is nothing for which I am fain to die." "If this dame loved her husband as she ought," said Dagoucin, "I marvel how it was she did not die of grief as she looked upon the bones of him whom, by her sin, she had sent to death." "What! Dagoucin," said Simontault, "have you yet to learn that in women dwells neither love nor regret?" "I have yet to learn it," answered Dagoucin, "for I have never yet made trial of their love, lest haply I find it less than I desire." "You live then on faith and hope," said Nomerfide, "as the plover does on wind? Truly you are easy to be fed." "I hold myself content," said he, "with the love that I know is in me, and with the hope that it is in my lady's heart likewise. But if I was assured that as. I hope so it is, I should be in such delight that I could not bear it and live." "Be wary lest you die of the plague," said Geburon, "for as to that sickness you name, I will assure you of it. But I would know to whom Oisille will give her vote." "I give it," said she, "to Simontault, who I am persuaded will spare no one." "Does not that," said he, "say, in so many words, that I am somewhat of an evil-speaker? But in the tale I shall tell you you shall see that the evil-speakers spoke the truth. I am assured, ladies, that you are not so foolish as to believe whatever men tell you, be they ever so pious in appearance, if the proof of what they say is not so great as to put an end to all doubt. And even under the form of miracles there are many abuses done, wherefore I desire to tell, you of a miracle, which shall be no less to the praise of a faithful prince than to the shame of a wicked minister of the church."