The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 70

In the Duchy of Burgundy there was a Duke, an honourable and excellent prince, who had a woman to wife from whose beauty he took such contentment, that he made no account of her complexion, only striving to do her pleasure, the which affection she very craftily feigned to return to him. Now the Duke had in his household a gentleman, so fulfilled with all the graces that are to be looked for in a man, that he was beloved of the whole house, and notably by the Duke, who from his childhood had reared him near his person; and seeing him so virtuous took a great liking for him, and from time to time trusted him with such of his occasions as were fitting to his youth. The Duchess, whose heart was not inclined towards chastity, not contenting herself with the love her husband had for her and the kindness he used in their conversation, looked often upon this gentleman, and found him so mightily to her taste that she grew to love him with a love that passed all ​reason. And of this she did every day endeavour to inform him, by sweet and pitiful looks, conjoined with a passionate manner of feature and much sighing. But he, who had made virtue his sole delight, could not conceive of vice in a lady who had such small temptation thereto; so that the languishing eyes and sheepish looks of this poor wanton brought her no harvest save a mad despair. And this one day pricked her so shrewdly, that forgetting she was a woman to be entreated and yet to refuse, and a princess who should be adored of such servants and yet have them in disdain, took upon her the spirit of a man far gone in love, to ease her of this fire she could no longer bear. So when her husband was at the council board, whither the young man by reason of his age did not yet go, she made him a sign to come to her; and this he did, thinking she had some charge to lay upon him. But taking him by the arm, as a woman who is weary of too much idleness, she led him to a gallery, and then said to him: "I marvel that you who are handsome, young, and full of grace, have lived so long in this company and yet have never loved." And looking upon him as pleasantly as she was able, she stopped short, and he answered: "Madam, if I were worthy that your highness should look down on me, it would be more a matter of astonishment to see one so unworthy as I am, offer his service and be refused and mocked." The Duchess, hearing this discreet reply, loved him more than ever, and protested that there was not a lady in the Court who would not deem herself happy to have him for a lover, and that he might well essay such an undertaking, for he would without doubt bring it to an honourable completion. The gentleman kept his eyes lowered all the while, not daring to look upon her face, that was hot enough to have melted an icicle, and just as he would have excused himself, the Duke came to require the Duchess at the council board on some affairs that concerned her; and with great regret she went thither. But the gentleman made no sign that he had understood the words she had spoken to him, whereat she vexed sore, not knowing wherefore he kept silence, save it were on account of foolish fear, of which she deemed him to have too much. A few days after, seeing that he made no account of her speech, she resolved to put from her the thought of fear and shame, and open her mind to him, being persuaded that a ​beauty like to hers could get none but a good reception; natheless it would have been greatly to her liking to have had the honour of being entreated. But she let honour go for the sake of pleasure, and having several times made trial of discourse like to what had gone before, and getting no reply to her taste, she one day took him by the sleeve, and said she would speak with him on certain weighty matters. The gentleman, humbly and reverently as was befitting, followed her to a deep window recess whither she had gone; and when she perceived that none in the room could see them, in a trembling voice, halfway betwixt desire and fear, she went on with her former discourse, chiding him that he had not yet chosen any lady in the company, and assuring him that on whomsoever the lot might fall she would give him her help so that he should be entreated kindly. He, not less troubled than astonished at her words, replied: "Madam, my heart is such that, were I once refused, I should have no more joy in the world, and I know myself to be so lowly that there is not a lady of the Court who would deign to accept me as her lover." The Duchess, blushing, for she thought he was well-nigh won, swore to him that she knew the prettiest of all her ladies would gladly have him, and render him perfectly content with her." "Alas! mistress," said he, "I do not suppose there is a woman of this company so blind as to be well affected towards me." The Duchess, perceiving he would not understand her, drew up the veil a little from before her passion, and for the fear his virtuousness gave her, proceeded by manner of interrogation, saying to him: "If Fortune had so favoured you that it was I who bore you this goodwill, what then would you reply?" The gentleman at the hearing of this thought he was dreaming, and falling on his knees, said to her: "Madam, when it please God that I have both the favour of the Duke my master, and of yourself, I shall deem myself the happiest man in the world, for 'tis all I ask in return for my loyal service, who more than any other am under obligation to lay down my life for you. And I am persuaded that the love you bear to my lord Duke is conjoined with such chastity and nobleness of heart, that not only I, who am but a worm of the earth, but the greatest prince and most gallant gentleman in Christendom would be altogether unable to break asunder the union between you two. And as for me, my lord ​hath brought me up since I was a child, and hath made me to be what I am; wherefore I would rather die than have any thoughts unbecoming in a faithful servant towards any wife or daughter or sister or mother of his." The Duchess would hear no more, but seeing herself in danger of being disgracefully refused, she broke on a sudden into his words, saying to him: "O boastful and foolish one, who would have you do so? Think you that the very flies in the air love you for your beauty? But if you were so daring as to address yourself to me, I would show you that I nor love nor wish to love other than my husband, and all the talk I have had with you has been but a pastime for me, that I might know your mind, and make a mock of you, as I do with foolish lovers." "Madam," said the gentleman, "I have believed and do believe that all this is as you say." Then without listening for more she went hastily away, and seeing that her ladies followed her, entered her closet and grieved beyond all telling. For on the one side love, wherein she had failed, made her very sorrowful, and on the other hate, both against herself for her folly and against him for his wit, brought such fury upon her, that one hour she was fain to lay violent hands on herself and die, the next she would live to be avenged on him she accounted her mortal enemy.

After that she had wept a long while she feigned to be sick, so that she should not sup with the Duke, the young gentleman being commonly in waiting at supper-time. The Duke, who loved his wife better than himself, came to see her; but so as the better to gain her end, she told him that she thought she was great with child, and for that cause had a defluction of rheum in the eyes, the which was great pain to her. So passed two or three days, the Duchess still keeping to her bed, so sad and melancholic that the Duke plainly perceived that there was something else besides her greatness to be mourned for. And he came to lie with her at night, and made her as good cheer as he was able, but for all that she ceased not to sigh continually. Then he said to her: "Sweetheart, you know I love you even as my life, and that when your's fails mine will not endure; wherefore, if you would keep me whole, I pray you tell me the cause of all your sighing, for I do not believe that the reason you have given is sufficient." ​The Duchess, seeing her husband to be minded towards her as she would have wished him, conceived that the time was come to take vengeance on her enemy, and throwing her arms about her husband wept, and answered him: "Alas, my lord, my greatest grief is to see you cozened of them that be so deeply pledged to guard your substance and honour." Hearing this, the Duke was very desirous to have the interpretation thereof, and besought her to tell him the truth without fear. And after several times refusing, at last she said: "Henceforth, my lord, I shall never wonder if strange peoples make war on princes, when they that are most of all indebted to them dare such a deed that the loss of goods is as nothing in comparison. I speak with respect to such a gentleman (and here she named him by his name), who having been fed by your hand, and entreated more as a son than a servant, has dared this miserable deed; namely, to lay siege to the honour of your wife, with which is bound up the honour of your house and lineage. And though by looks he hath long striven to acquaint me with his wicked intent, yet my heart, that takes account of none but you, perceived nothing; wherefore at the last he made it known to me by word of mouth. And to him I made a reply befitting mine estate and chastity, natheless I do so hate him, that I cannot endure to behold him, for which reason I have stayed in my chamber and lost the pleasure of your company. So I beseech you, my lord, keep no longer this pest near your person; for after such a crime, fearing lest I tell you of it, he may well do worse. This then is the cause of my grief, and methinks it is meet and right, that you should forthwith take order with it." The Duke, who on the one hand loved his wife and esteemed that a great injury had been done him, and on the other hand loved his servant, whose faithfulness he had tried so well that he could hardly believe this lie for truth, was in great perplexity and wrathfulness. And he went to his chamber, and charged the gentleman no more to appear before him, but to begone to his lodging and tarry there for some time. He, not knowing the reason, was sorely vexed, thinking that he had deserved the very contrary to this ill treatment, and well assured of his thoughts and deeds, sent a fellow of his to speak to the Duke and carry a letter to him. Wherein he humbly besought him, that if by bad report he was estranged ​from his presence, he would be pleased to grant a suspension of judgment until he had heard from his lips the truth of the matter, for it would be found that in no respect had he done aught worthy of his displeasure. Having seen this letter the Duke's anger was somewhat appeased, and he privily sent for him to his room, and with a wrathful countenance said to him: "I never thought that my trouble with your nurture when you were a child should have been converted to repentance for having so far advanced you. But now you have sought to do me a worse thing than to take away my goods or my life; to bring shame on the honour of her who is the half of me, and so to make my house and lineage a byword for ever. And you can conceive that such a wrong pricks me so at heart, that were I not in doubt as to whether it is the truth or no, you would have been by now at the bottom of the moat, that I might deal to you a privy punishment for a privy crime." The gentleman was no whit stumbled at this discourse, for his innocency gave him a firm and constant speech, and craved to be informed who was his accuser, since such slanders should be answered with sword rather than a word. "Your accuser," said the Duke, "hath no arms save her chastity, for I will have you know that it is my wife and none other who made this thing manifest to me, and prayed to be avenged on you." The poor gentleman, hearing the crafty wickedness of the Duchess, yet would not accuse her, but answered: "My lord, my lady can say what she will; you know her better than I, and that I have never been with her alone, save one time when she spoke but very little with me. Your judgment is as sound as any prince in the world, wherefore, my lord, I entreat you declare whether you have ever seen aught on my face that engendered any suspicion. For this fire of love cannot be kept secret a long while and not be discovered of them that are afflicted with the same disease. And I entreat you, my lord, to believe two things of me: the one, that I am so loyal to you that were your wife the prettiest of all women, yet love would have no power to bring a stain on my honour and fidelity; the other, that even were she not your wife, she is the last woman on whom I should grow amorous, and there is many another that would come before her in my heart." At the hearing of these truths the Duke began to soften, and said: "I assure you that ​I too never believed it; wherefore come into my presence again, and if it be discovered that the truth is with you, I will love you better than I ever did; and on the other hand your life is in my hands." For this the gentleman thanked him, submitting to all manner of pains and penalties if there should be found any fault in him.

The Duchess, seeing the gentleman in waiting as was accustomed, could not patiently bear it, but said to her husband: "You will get but your deserts, my lord, if you are poisoned, since you put more trust in your mortal enemies than in your friends." "Prithee, sweetheart, trouble not yourself as to this matter, for if I find that the truth is even as you have told me be certain that he will not live four-and-twenty hours after; but he hath so sworn to the contrary effect, that I, not having perceived myself any fault in him, cannot believe it without some sure proof." "In good faith," she said, "your kindness makes his wickedness the greater. What more proof would you have than to see a man like him remain so long and not be reported to be in love? Trust me, my lord, that without the great desire he had to be my lover, he would have found a mistress before now; for never did a young man live in such a company in this manner, without aiming at so high a mark that he was content with the mere hope of attaining thereto. And since you are persuaded that he is telling you the truth, put him to the oath as to his love, for if he loves another I am content that you should credit him; but if not believe that I speak the truth." The Duke found the conclusions of his wife good, and took the gentleman with him, to the chase, and said to him: "My wife still persists in her jugdment concerning you, and gives me a reason that makes me very suspicious—namely, that so comely and young a man was never before seen without a sweetheart for any length of time, and this doth cause me to believe that your intent is as she affirms, and that the expectation you have of her doth give you so much contentment, that you have no thought for other women. Wherefore as a friend I entreat you, and as a master charge you to tell me, whether you love any lady or no." The poor gentleman, to whom this secret was as dear as life, was nevertheless constrained, by reason of his lord's jealousy, to confess that of a truth he loved a woman whose beauty was so great that the ​comeliness of the Duchess and the ladies of her Court was but ugliness in comparison. But he besought him never to require her name at his hands, since the love betwixt him and his sweetheart was of such sort that none could do it a hurt save the one who first made it known. The Duke promised not to press him as to this matter, and was so content with him, that he showed him more kindness than ever he had before. This the Duchess very plainly perceived, and with her wonted craft set herself to find out the cause thereof. And the Duke concealed it not from her, whereby to her lust of vengeance was conjoined a bitter jealousy, that made her entreat the Duke to require his sweetheart's name of the gentleman. For she would have him believe 'twas all a lie, and the best means to discover it would be to demand proof of the story, and if he could not name her he esteemed so beautiful it would be exceeding foolish to put any trust in his words. The poor lord, whose mind was swayed by his wife at her pleasure, went forth and walked all alone with the gentleman, telling him that he was in greater trouble than afore, for he strongly suspected that he had given him this excuse to prevent the discovery of the truth; wherefore he prayed him to declare the name of her he loved so much. The gentleman entreated him not to be the occasion of his doing such a sin against his mistress—namely, to break the promise he had made and kept for so long awhile, and cause him to lose in a day that he had preserved for more than seven years; and said he had rather die than do this wrong to her who was so faithful to him. The Duke, finding that he was not willing to tell him, grew most furiously jealous, and said to him: "Choose then one of two things: either tell me the name of your mistress or be banished from the lands over which I have authority, and if I find you in them eight days after, I will put you to a cruel death." If ever grief took hold on the heart of faithful lover, then did it on this poor gentleman, who might well say Augustiae sunt mihi undique, since on the one hand if he told the truth he would lose his sweetheart if she came to know that he had broken his promise; and on the other, if he told it not, he would be banished from the lands wherein she dwelt, and would no more have the means of seeing her. So, pressed hard on either side, there came a cold sweat upon him as on one who is dying of a broken heart, which ​being seen of the Duke, was esteemed by him a proof that the gentleman's only mistress was his own wife, and he thought that, because he was not able to name any other, he was in such piteous case, wherefore he harshly said to him: "If your words were true, you would have none of this difficulty to declare her name, wherefore I believe that your sin is tormenting you." The gentleman, pricked by this speech, and driven by his love for his master, resolved to tell him the truth, being persuaded that he was so honourable a man that he would on no account reveal it. So throwing himself on his knees before him, with clasped hands, he said: "My lord, both what I owe you, and the great love I bear you, do more urge me than any fear of death; for I see you in such imagination and false judgments concerning me, that to set you at rest I am determined to do what no torment could have compelled me. And I entreat you, my lord, to swear and promise, on your faith as a Christian prince, never to reveal the secret that, as it is your pleasure, I am constrained to make known to you. Forthwith the Duke swore all the oaths he could call to mind that never by his lips, his pen, or his countenance, would he reveal this thing to any living soul. The young man, being assured of so virtuous a prince, straightway put the first stone to the building of his woes, and said to him: "It is seven years ago, my lord, that, knowing your niece the Lady of Vergier was a widow and had no kindred, I set myself to gain her favour. And since I came not of a house that I should wed her, I was content to be received as a lover, and this was granted me. And it has pleased God that hitherto our passages have been ordered so discreetly, that we two alone are advertised of them, and now, my lord, you also are of our privity, and in your hands I put my life and my honour, entreating you to keep our secret, and to make no less account of your niece, for I think in the round world there is none to be compared to her." At this the Duke was glad, for knowing the great beauty of his niece, he made no doubt she was more pleasant than his wife, but yet could not understand how such a matter should be conducted without ways and means, and so prayed the gentleman tell him how he visited her. The gentleman showed him how his lady's chamber opened out to the garden, and how, on the appointed day, she would leave a little door open through which he passed, and ​waited till he heard the barking of a little dog, that his mistress sent into the garden when all her women were asleep. Then he went in and talked with her all the night, and, before he set forth, she set him a day on which to see her again, and he never failed to keep the appointment without some urgent cause preventing him. The Duke, who was mighty inquisitive, and who in his time had been a hot gallant, as much to satisfy altogether his suspicions as to hear more of so strange a case, prayed him the next time he visited his mistress to take him also, not as a master but as a companion. The gentleman, having gone thus far, granted him his desire, telling him that very day was appointed for their meeting, whereat the Duke was in such delight as he would not have exchanged for a kingdom. And feigning to go to rest in his closet, he made bring two horses for him and the gentleman, and all the night they fared upon their way from Argilly, where dwelt the Duke, to La Vergier. And leaving their horses without the park, the gentleman led the Duke into the garden by the little door, praying him to remain behind a walnut-tree, where he could judge whether his tale were true or no. He had not been in the garden a long while before the dog began to bark, and the gentleman walked to the tower, where his lady failed not to come out to him, and with a kiss said it seemed a thousand years since she had seen him last, and then they entered the tower together and shut the door upon them. The Duke, having seen the whole mystery, was more than satisfied, and had not to wait there long, for the gentleman told his mistress that he must return earlier than was his wont, for that the Duke was going a-hunting at four of the clock, and he dared not fail to be with him. The lady, who preferred honour before pleasure, would by no means keep him from his duty, for the thing of which she made most account in their virtuous love was that it was secret from all men. So the gentleman set forth at one hour after midnight, and the lady, in her mantle and kerchief, went some way with him, but not so far as she wished, for he made her turn back lest she should see the Duke, with whom he returned as he had come to the castle of Argilly. And as they were upon the way the Duke swore continually to his servant never to reveal the secret; and so loved and trusted him that there was no one at Court more in his ​favour, whereat the Duchess became mightily enraged. But the Duke straitly charged her never more to speak on this matter, for he knew the truth and was pleased with it, inasmuch as the lady was more loveable than she. At this the Duchess was so cut to the heart that she fell into a sickness more grievous than a fever; and the Duke going to see her and console her, could effect nothing if he would not tell her the name of the Beloved Lady, and she used such importunity with him that he went from her room, saying: "If you talk to me again after this sort, we will part from one another." These words made the sickness of the Duchess to increase, and she feigned to feel the child moving in her womb, whereat the Duke rejoiced so much that he came to lie with her. But at the moment in which she perceived him to be most amorous on her she turned away from him, saying: "I beseech you, since you have no love for wife nor child, leave us to die together." And with these words she poured forth such tears and lamentations that the Duke was in great fear lest she should miscarry; wherefore, taking her between his arms, he entreated her to tell him her desire, since all things were in common between them. "Alas, my lord," she replied, weeping, "how can I hope that you will do for me a thing at all difficult when you refuse that which is most easy and reasonable—namely, to tell me the mistress of the most wicked servant you ever had in your house? I thought that you and I were but one heart, one soul, and one flesh, but since you hide from me your secrets, I am persuaded I am to you as a stranger and one not akin. Alas! my lord, you have told me many a secret and weighty matter, of which you have never heard that I spoke; you know by such sufficient trial that my will is altogether your own, that you ought not to doubt that I am more you than myself. And being you have sworn to tell no other the secret of the gentleman, you will not break your word in telling me, for I am not and cannot be other than yourself: I have you in my heart, I hold you in my arms, and your child, in whom you live, is in my womb; and yet I cannot have your heart, as you have mine! But the more I am loyal and faithful to you, the more are you cruel and severe with me; and this it is that makes me a thousand times a day to desire, by a sudden death, to deliver your child from such a father, and myself from such a ​husband. And this I hope will fall out soon, since you prefer a faithless servant before such a wife as I am to you, and before the mother of your child, that will without doubt perish, since I cannot learn of you what I greatly desire to know." So saying she threw her arms about her husband and kissed him, watering his face with her tears and lamenting in such wise, that the good prince, fearing lest he should lose his wife and his child together, determined to tell her the whole truth. But before he did so, he swore to her that if ever she revealed it to a living soul she should die by his hand, to which she agreed and accepted the penalty. Then the poor cozened husband told her all that he had seen from beginning to end, at which she feigned to be pleased, but in her heart was very wrath. Natheless, for fear of the Duke, she dissembled her passion as well as might be.

And it came to pass that on a great feast-day the Duke held his court, bidding to it all the ladies of the land, and amongst the rest his niece. And the dances having begun, each gladly did his duty therein; but the Duchess being in torment to see the beauty and grace of the Lady of Vergier, could neither rejoice with the rest nor so much as conceal her spleen. For having made all the ladies to sit around her, she began to discourse concerning love, and perceiving that the Lady of Vergier said nothing, she asked her with a heart black with jealousy: "And is it possible, fair niece, that your beauty is without a friend or follower?" "Mistress," replied the Lady of Vergier, "my beauty hath not gained me such; for since the death of my husband I have willed to have no lovers save my children, with whom I am content." "Fair niece, fair niece," replied the Duchess with an abominable spitefulness, "there is no love so secret as not to be revealed, nor little dog so well trained and instructed whose bark cannot be heard." I leave to your imagination, ladies, what pain the poor Lady of Vergier felt at her heart, hearing a thing so long concealed made thus manifest to her great shame; her honour, so carefully guarded and so woefully lost, was a torment to her, but still more her suspicion that her lover had broken his promise, the which she had never looked for except he were to love some lady prettier than she, who by her enchantments should cause him to make all known to her. Yet so great was her prudence that she made no sign, and replied laughing to the Duchess ​that she understood not the language of the beasts. But under this wise concealment her heart was so full of sadness that she arose, and, passing through the chamber of the Duchess, entered a closet whither the Duke, as he walked up and down, saw her go in. And when she found herself in a place where she thought to be alone, she let herself fell upon a bed as one who swoons away, so that a lady who was lying by the bedside to rest herself, arose and looked through the curtain to see who it was; and finding it was the Lady of Vergier who thought herself alone, she durst not do anything, but kept still and listened to what she said. And the poor lady with a dying voice began her plaint, saying: "Ah, hapless one! what word is this that I have heard? What sentence of death hath been passed upon me? What final judgment have I received? O my beloved, my beloved, is this the reward of my chaste and honourable affection? O heart of me, what dangerous choice hast thou made; for the most loyal the most faithless, for the truest a deceiver, for the most secret a scandalous man? Alas! can it be that this thing that was hidden from the eyes of all men hath been revealed to the Duchess? My little dog that was the only help of our long love was too well taught; it was not thou that hath discovered me, but he whose voice can be heard above the barking of the dog, and whose heart is more thankless than the heart of the beast. He it was who, against his oath and promise, hath made manifest our happy life that did hurt to none, and endured for many a year. O my beloved, my beloved, who alone art in my breast, in whom alone I live, was it needful for thee to declare thyself my mortal enemy, and to cast my honour to the four winds, my body to the earth, and my soul to its eternal rest? Hath the Duchess, then, so great beauty that it hath changed thee as did the beauty of Circe? Art thou, then, become from virtuous vicious, from good evil, and from a man a ravening beast? O my love, my love, though thou hast broken thine oath, yet will I keep mine. Never more will I see thee, after that thou hast noised our love abroad; but since I cannot live without the sight of thee, I submit willingly to mine anguish, and seek no cure for it either in reason or in medicine; for death alone shall bring it to a close, and be sweeter to me than to tarry in the world without love, without honour, or delight. Nor war nor death ​hath taken my lover from me, nor sin nor fault of mine hath robbed me of mine honour or contentment; 'tis cruel chance that rendereth him who of all had most cause for gratitude ungrateful, and maketh me to receive the contrary to what I have deserved. Ah, my lady Duchess, what delight it was to mock me and my little dog; enjoy, then, that which belongs alone to me. Make her to be a jest who thought, by concealment and virtuous loving, to be freed from all such jesting. How hath this word pierced through my heart, that I redden with shame and grow pale with jealousy. Alas! my heart, 'tis time thou wast no more. Love bumeth thee as with fire, jealousy and wrong are on thee as a frost of death, and sorrow and shame will not have me give thee any comfort. Alas! poor soul, that for adoring the creature forgot the Creator, thou must return into the hands of Him from whom an idle love drew thee awhile away. Be of good courage, O my soul, for thou shalt find a kinder Father than was the lover who made Him to be forgotten. O God, my creator, true and perfect love, by whose grace my love was unspotted from sin, save that of loving too much, I entreat Thee of Thy mercy receive the soul of her who repenteth, for that she hath broken Thy first and most righteous commandment. By the merits of Him whose love passeth all understanding, pardon the sin that I by too great love have committed, for in Thee alone do I put my trust. And farewell, O my lover, whose name doth break my heart." And forthwith she fell backward, and her face became white as death, her lips blue, and her extremities cold. And at that moment her lover came into the hall, and saw the Duchess dancing amid the ladies, and looked on every side for his mistress, but not seeing her, entered the chamber of the Duchess. There he found the Duke sauntering up and down, who, guessing his intent, whispered in his ear: "She is gone into that closet, and methinks she looked somewhat sickly." The gentleman asked if it was his pleasure that he should go after her, and the Duke prayed him to do so. And when he was come into the closet he saw the Lady of Vergier standing at the threshold of death, and he threw his arms about her and said: "What ails you, sweetheart? Would you leave me, then?" The poor lady, hearing that voice she knew so well, took a little strength, and, opening her eyes, looked on him who was ​the cause of her death, but upon that look love and sorrow swelled so within her that with a pitiful sigh she gave up her soul to God. The gentleman, with scarce more life in him than the dead woman, asked of the lady that was by the bed after what sort this sickness had come upon her. And she told him all the words that she had heard. Then he knew that the Duke had revealed the secret to his wife, and, embracing the body of his sweetheart, he for a long while watered it with tears, saying thus: "O traitorous and wicked lover that I am, wherefore has not the punishment of my treachery fallen upon me, and not upon her who is innocent? Wherefore did not thunder from heaven overwhelm me on the day that my tongue revealed the secret pf our virtuous love? Wherefore did not the earth open and swallow me up, faithless that I am? O tongue, mayest thou be punished as was the tongue of the rich man who in hell lifted up his eyes being in torment. O heart, too, fearful of death and banishment, mayest thou be torn for ever of eagles as was the heart of Ixion.^[1] Alas! my love, the wee of woes, and the bitterest of all woes, hath overtaken me. Thinking to keep you, I have lost you for ever; thinking to live with you a long while in virtuous contentment, I cast my arms about your dead body; and dying, you were displeased with me, my heart, and my tongue. O most loyal and faithful of all women, I do condemn myself for the most disloyal, fickle, and unfaithful of all men. Would that I could impute the blame to the Duke, in whose promise I trusted, hoping thereby to prolong our days in happiness, but alas! I should have known that none could keep my secret better than myself. The Duke was more justified in that he revealed it to his wife than I who revealed it to him. I accuse myself alone of the greatest wickedness that ever fell out between lovers. Would that I had endured to be cast into the moat, as he threatened me; then, my love, you would be still alive, and I should have met with a glorious death, in keeping of the law of love. But I broke my promise and remain alive, and you, by reason of your perfect love, are dead; for the purity of your heart could not bear to know the wickedness of your lover, and suffer you to live. O God, why hast thou made me man, with ​love so light and heart devoid of knowledge? Why madest Thou not me the dog that served his mistress faithfully? Alas! my little friend, my joy at your bark is turned to bitter grief for that another has heard it. Yet, dear sweetheart, neither the love of the Duchess nor of any other woman could make me vary, though several times in her wicked craftiness she prayed and entreated me; but my folly hath overcome me, who thought by it to establish our love for ever. Yet though I was foolish, none the less am I worthy of blame, for I revealed the secret of my mistress, and I broke my promise to her, and for that alone I see her dead before mine eyes. Alas! sweetheart, will death be more cruel to me than thee, whose love hath ended thy life? I believe that it will not deign to touch my wretched, faithless heart, for life with dishonour and the recollection of what by mine own fault I have lost will be harder to bear than ten thousand deaths. And if any, by malice or mischance, had slain you, forthwith would my sword been in my hand to avenge you; so it is right that I should not pardon that murderer who is the cause of your death by a more wicked deed than the stroke of a sword. And if I knew a more infamous executioner than myself, I would pray him to put to death your traitorous lover. O love, by my love that was without knowledge I have done you a displeasure, thus it is that you will not succour me as you succoured her who kept all your laws. Nor is it befitting that I should die so honourable a death, but rather that mine own hand should slay me. Since with my tears I have washed your face, and since with my tongue I have besought your forgivenness, now with my hand I will make my body like to yours, and send my soul whither you are, for I know that a virtuous love hath no end in this world nor in the next." And then rising from beside the body, he drew his dagger, and like a madman dealt himself a violent blow therewith, and, falling back, took his sweetheart in his arms and kissed her in such wise that there seemed to be in him more of love than death. The lady, seeing the blow, ran to the door and called for help; and the Duke, hearing the cry, and fearing for them that he loved, came the first into the closet, and, beholding the pitiful pair, essayed to draw them apart, so that the gentleman, if it were possible, might be saved. But he held his sweetheart so firmly, that till he was ​dead they could not be sundered. Yet hearing the voice of the Duke speaking to him, and saying: "Alas! what is the cause of this?" with a terrible look he replied to him: "My tongue and yours, my lord." So saying, he gave up the ghost, with his face close to that of his mistress. The Duke, desiring to know more, constrained the lady to tell him what she had heard and seen, and this she did, sparing nothing. Then the Duke, knowing that he himself was the cause of it, threw him on the dead lovers, and with tears and very sorrowful lamentations, and ofttimes kissing them, asked pardon for his sin. And after, in furious fashion, he arose, and drew the dagger from the gentleman's body; and as a wild boar, wounded by a spear, rushes madly against his enemy, so went he to seek her out who had wounded the very depths of his heart. And he found her dancing in the hall, more gay than she was wont to be, for the thought that she had avenged her on the Lady of Vergier. So the Duke took her in the middle of the dance, and said to her: "You took the secret upon your life, and upon your life fall the punishment." So saying, he seized her by the hair, and struck her with the dagger through the throat, whereat all the company were astonished, and each thought the Duke was beside himself. But having fulfilled his intent, he gathered together into the hall all his servants, and recounted the honourable and pitiful history of his niece, and the evil his wife had done to her, and all present wept at the hearing of it. And the Duke ordained that his wife should be buried in an abbey that he had founded, in part for satisfaction of his sin in putting her to death; and he made build a fair sepulchre where the bodies of his niece and the gentleman were laid together, with an epitaph showing forth their tragical history. And the Duke led an armament against the Turks, wherein God so favoured him that he gained both honour and profit, and found when he returned that his eldest son was fit to take the lordship upon him, and so, leaving all, he became a monk in the abbey where the bodies of his wife and the two lovers were buried, and there with God passed happily the remnant of his days.

"Such, ladies, is the story you would have me tell you, the which I see plainly by your eyes you have not heard without compassion. Methinks you would do well to set it before you ​for an ensample, lest you put too much your affections on men, for howsoever good and virtuous they be, there is always at the end an aftertaste of trouble. And you know that St. Paul warns even such folk as be married that they love not one another to excess. For the nearer the heart to earthly things the farther is it from heavenly things, and the more difficult the chain to be broken. Wherefore I beseech you, ladies, pray to God for His Holy Spirit, whereby your hearts shall be so inflamed with His love, that when you die it will be no pain to leave that which is dear to you upon earth." "Since their love was so honourable," said Geburon, "as you say it was, what need was there to use such concealment?" "For that," said Parlamente, "the malice of men is so great, that they are not able to conceive how passionate love can be conjoined to virtue, since they esteem men and women vicious, as they themselves are. On this account, if a woman have a dear friend, beyond her most immediate kin, she must speak with him secretly, if she would speak with him long. For a woman's honour is as much made matter of dispute through a virtuous as through a vicious love, since men judge but by appearances." "But," said Geburon, "when the secret is discovered it fares so much the worse with them." "I confess that it is so," said Longarine, "wherefore 'tis better not to love at all." "We appeal from that sentence," said Dagoucin, "for if we thought the ladies were without love, we should be without life. I speak of them who live but to gain love, and though they have no good success, yet does hope sustain them, and make them to do a thousand valorous deeds, till old age converts these honourable pains into others. But if we conceived that the ladies loved us not, in place of warriors we should have to turn hucksters, and instead of winning honour think only how to keep up riches." "Then," said Hircan, "you would maintain that, if there were no women, we should become cowards? As if we had no heart save what they gave us! I am altogether of the contrary opinion, and believe that there is nothing that weakens the heart of a man so much as the excessive loving or resorting with women. And for this cause the Jews would not have a man go to the wars during the first year after his marriage, for fear lest his love for his wife should draw him from the danger he ought to seek out." ​"I esteem," said Saffredent, "this ordinance without sufficient reason, insomuch as there is nothing that makes a man go abroad from his house so much as marriage, for the wars without are not harder to be borne than those within, and I believe that to make man desire to go to far countries and forsake his hearth he must first be wed." "It is true," said Ennasuitte, "that marriage takes away from them the care of their houses, since they trust the hearth to the wife, and think of nothing but honour, being persuaded that the woman will have due care for the profit." Saffredent replied to her: "Howsoever that may be, I am glad that you are of my opinion." "But," said Parlamente, "you dispute not concerning that which is most weighty of all: wherefore was it that the gentleman, who was the cause of all the woe, did not die so soon as she who was innocent?" Nomerfide replied: "'Tis because women love better than men." "Rather," said Simontault, "is it because the jealousy and despair of women break their hearts, without their knowing wherefore, while the wisdom of men make them to inquire as to the truth. This done, they show the greatness of their souls, as did this gentleman, who having heard what was the cause of his sweetheart's death, manifested his love towards her, and spared not his own life." "Natheless," said Ennasuitte, "she died of true love, for her steadfast and faithful heart could not endure to be so shamefully deceived." "The reason of it was jealousy," said Simontault, "that would give no room to reason, and she believed evil of her lover of which he was not guilty. Moreover her death was constrained, for she could not help it; while her lover, after that he knew what wrong he had done her, of his free will put himself to death." "Yet," said Nomerfide, "the love must needs be great to cause such sorrow." "Do you have no fear," said Hircan, "for you will never come to your death through such a fever." "No more," answered Nomerfide, "than you will kill yourself after discovering your fault." Parlamente, who suspected this dispute to be at her expense, said to them, laughing: "'Tis enough that those two died for love, without two others proceeding to battery and assault for love also. And there is the last bell for evensong, so we must begone whether we will or no." Thereupon the company arose and went to hear evensong, forgetting not in their prayers the souls of the true lovers, ​for whom the monks, of their goodwill, did sing a De Profundis. And while they supped their talk ran on nothing but the Lady of Vergier, and after diverting them together for a while, each went to his chamber, and so put an end to the Seventh Day.