The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 48

In a certain village of Perigord a marriage feast was made at the inn, and there all the friends and kinsfolk of the bride and bridegroom made good cheer together. And on the day of the wedding there came thither two friars, to whom supper was given in their own room, since it was not meet for men of their condition to be present at the feast. But the chief of the two friars, he having the greater authority and subtilty, resolved within himself that, since they kept him from the board, he would have a share in the bed, and show them one of his craft secrets. So when the evening was come, and the dancing begun, the friar looked for a long while through a ​window on the bride and found her mighty pretty and altogether to his taste. And having made careful inquiry of the serving-maids as to the room where she was to lie, he found to his great contentment that it was hard-by his own; and the better to gain his ends, kept such good watch that he saw the old women leading her after their custom away from the hall. Now since it was very early the husband would not leave the dance, persisting in it so long that it seemed as if he had forgotten his wife, the which the friar had by no means done, for as soon as he heard the bride was a-bed, he doffed his grey habit and went and took the husband's place. But for fear of being found there he stayed but a short while, and walked to the end of a passage where stood his fellow keeping guard for him, who made a sign that the husband was still dancing. So the friar, who had not yet satisfied his wicked concupiscence, went again to lie with the bride, till that his fellow warned him it was time to get him gone. Then came the bridegroom to bed, and his wife, who had been so entreated by the friar that she craved nothing but rest, could not refrain from saying: "Is it your purpose to take no sleep, and to never cease from troubling me?" The poor man, having hardly come, was much astonished, and asked what trouble he had given her, since he had but now left the dance. "A very brave dance," answered the poor girl, "inasmuch as this is the third time you have lain with me; methinks you would do better to go to sleep." Hearing these words he marvelled still more, and forgot all else to know the truth of the matter, and when she had told him her tale, he suspected the friars who were lodged in the house. So he arose forthwith and entered their room, which was hard-by his own. And perceiving they were not there he fell to calling help so loudly that he got together all his friends, and they, having been advised of what had been done, came to his aid with torches, lanterns, and all the dogs that were in the village, and so made inquisition for the friars. And finding them not indoors, they made such good speed that they caught them in the vineyards, and there entreated them as they had deserved; for after that they had well beaten them they cut off their arms and legs, and left them amidst the vines to the care of Bacchus and Venus, whom they followed rather than St. Francis.

​"Be not astonished, ladies, if such folk, separated from our common manner of living, do things that would shame a freelance. Marvel rather that they do not still worse, when God takes his favour from them; for the cowl is so far from making the monk that it often, through pride, unmakes him. And for me the 'religion' of St. James is good enough: 'Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.'" "Shall we never," said Oisille, "have done with these tales of the wicked friars?" Ennasuitte replied: "If princes, ladies, and gentlemen, be not spared, methinks we honour the friars mightily by deigning to speak of them; for so useless are they that, if they had not done evil deeds worthy of remembrance, there would be nothing to tell concerning them, and it is said that one had better do evil than do nothing. And our posy shall be the finer for having in it flowers of all sorts." "If you would promise," said Hircan, "not to be wrath with me, I will tell you of a great lady so wicked, that you will have the poor friar excused, who supplied his needs where he was able, since the lady of my story, though she had enough to eat, was so shamefully dainty." "As we are sworn to tell the truth," said Oisille, "so are we sworn to hear it. Wherefore speak freely, for the evil we say of men and women is not to do them peculiar shame, but to take away all confidence in the creature, by showing the mischances into which men fall. And thereby to fix our hope on Him who alone is perfect, and without whom man is but imperfection." "Then freely and without fear," said Hircan, "I will tell you the history."