The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 60

In the town of Paris there lived so good-natured a man, that he would have thought it a sin to believe one was lying with his wife, though he had seen it with his eyes. And he was married to a very wicked woman, whose wickedness he never perceived, but treated her as if she was as good as any in the world. But one day, when King Lewis the Twelfth was in Paris, his wife left him for one of the songmen of the aforesaid prince; and when the King went away and she could see her lover no more she determined to forsake her husband and follow him. To this the songman agreed, and took her to a house he had at Blois, where they lived a long while together. The poor husband, finding his wife to have wandered away, sought for her on every side, and at last it was told him that she was with the songman; and willing to recover his lost sheep, that he had so badly guarded, he wrote her many letters, praying her to return, and saying he would take her back again if she would from henceforth live virtuously. But his wife, who had such delight in the singing of her songman that she had forgotten her husband's voice, made no account of all his kindness, but mocked him; wherefore he grew angry and let her know that he would get her by the laws ecclesiastical, since in no other way she would return to him. And she, fearing lest if the law should deliver her into his hands, she and her songman would fare badly, devised a plot well worthy of her. And, dissembling sickness, she sent to certain honourable women of the town asking them to visit her, and this they did gladly, hoping through sickness to draw her from her wicked life, and to this intent each one did make unto her most seemly remonstances. Then she, feigning to be grievously sick, wept and bewailed her sins in such sort that all present had compassion on her, steadfastly believing that she spoke from the bottom of her heart. And seeing her thus redeemed and repentant, they set them to console her, saying that God was not so terrible as the preachers for the most part declared, and that he would never refuse his pity. Thereupon they sent for a good and discreet man to hear her confession; and on the ​morrow came the parson to administer the Holy Sacrament, the which she received so devoutly that all the honourable women of the town who were present wept to see her, praising God that of His goodness He had pity on this poor soul. Afterwards, feigning she could eat no more, the parson gave her extreme unction, which she received with pious signs, since scarcely now could she speak; for such was her pretence. So she remained a long time, seeming little by little to lose sight, and hearing, and all the other senses, whereat all present fell to crying aloud Jesus! And since night was near at hand, and the ladies lived afar off, they all left her, and while they were going from the house it was told them she was gone, and saying a De Profundis for her, they returned each one to her own house. The parson inquired of the songman where he would that she should be buried, who answered that she had charged him to bury her in the cemetery, whither it would be good to carry her at night. So the poor wretch was made ready for burial by a servant that took care to do her no hurt, and then with brave torches she was borne to the grave the songman had made. But when the corpse passed before the houses of those women who had been present at the giving of extreme unction, they all came out and followed her to the grave, and soon both priests and women left her with the songman, who, so soon as he saw the company at some little distance, together with the servant took out of the grave his sweetheart more alive than ever, and brought her privily to his house, where he kept her a long while in hiding.

Her husband, who pursued after her, came to Blois and craved justice, and there he found that she was dead and buried in the estimation of all the ladies of the town, who told him the manner of her end. At this the honest man was very glad; that her soul was in paradise, and he was quit of her wicked body. In this contentment he went back to Paris, where he took to wife a young and pretty woman of good repute and a notable housewife, of whom he had several children; and they lived together for fourteen years and upwards; but at last Fame, that can keep nothing hid, advertised him his wife was not dead, but alive and with the wicked songman. And the poor man concealed this so long as he was able, dissembling that he knew of it, and desiring to believe it was a lie. But ​the affair was told to his wife, a discreet woman, and she was so anguished thereat, that she was like to die of grief; and had it been possible for her, with a safe conscience, to hide this mischance, she would willingly have done it, but it was not so, for the bishop's court presently took order with them, and in the first place put them asunder till the whole truth should be known. So was this poor man constrained to eschew the good and ensue the evil, and came to Blois, a little after the coronation of King Francis the First. And there he found Queen Claude and the Regent, before whom he made his plaint, asking her that he would have fain not received; but needs must he take her, wherefore he was mightily pitied of all the company. And when his wife was brought before him, for a long time she stiffly maintained she was not his wife, the which he would have gladly believed if he could. She, more sad than sorry or ashamed, told him she had rather die than return to him, and this was good news for her poor husband. But the ladies, before whom she made her wicked pleadings, condemned her to return, and used such threats with the songman, that he was forced to tell his mistress, and indeed she was an ugly woman enough, to go back to her husband, since he would have no more commerce with her. So, since she was obliged, the poor wretch returned to her husband, and was more kindly entreated of him than she had deserved.

"Wherefore I say, ladies, that if this poor man had been more watchful of his wife, he had not lost her, for well-kept is hardly lost, and the occasion makes the thief." "'Tis a strange thing," said Hircan, "how strong is love when it appears least bottomed on reason." "It hath been told me," said Simontault, "that it were easier to break two marriages, than to sow enmity between a priest and his wench." "I do believe it," said Ennasuitte, "for they that bind others in wedlock, know so well how to tie the knot, that only death can loosen it. Furthermore the doctors maintain spiritual discourse to be above, all other, when it follows that spiritual love is the greatest of all." "This thing," said Dagoucin, "I cannot pardon in a lady, to leave a good husband or a sweetheart for a parson, be he never so comely a man." "Prithee, Dagoucin," said Hircan, "intermeddle not with our holy mother, the Church, but believe that it is a great delight for poor secret fearful women to sin ​with men who can absolve them, for there are some who are more ashamed to confess their sins than to commit them." "You speak," said Oisille, "of them that have no knowledge of God, and who do not bethink them that what is done in secret shall one day be made manifest before the heavenly host. But I do not believe that, for the sake of confession, they intromit with confessors, but rather that they are so blinded of the devil that they have more care for secresy and a virtuous cloak than for absolution of sins of which they do not repent." "Repent, say you," answered Saffredent, "nay, but they esteem themselves holier than other women, and I am sure that some take honour for that they are constant to their lovers." "You speak in such sort," said Oisille to Saffredent, "that methinks you know of some story to the purpose. Wherefore I pray you on the morrow, to begin the day, you will tell us what you know. But I hear the last bell ringing for evensong, since the monks went when they had heard our tenth story, and left us to bring our dispute to a close." Thereupon the company arose, and came to the church, where they found the monks waiting for them. And when they had heard evensong, they took supper together, telling many a pleasant tale. Then after supper and their accustomed divertisement in the meadow they went to rest, so as to have the clearer brains for the morrow.