The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 71

In the town of Amboise there lived a man named Brimbaudier, saddler to the Queen of Navarre, and one whom from the colour of his visage worshipped Bacchus rather than Diana. He had to wife an honest woman, who governed his household discreetly, and he was well content with her; and one day it was told him his wife was sick unto death, whereat he manifested very great sorrow, going with all speed to succour her. And he found the poor woman in such case that she had more need of the parson than the physician, and her husband's anguish was pitiful to behold. But to represent it well it would be needful to speak thickly as he did, and still better to paint one's face in the similitude of him. After that he had done for her all that was in his power, she asked for the cross, and it was brought her. Seeing this the good man threw himself on a bed, quite desperate, and crying in his thick voice: "Alas, alas! I shall lose my poor wife. What shall I do, unhappy wretch that I am?" and much more to the same intent. At last, perceiving that there was no one in the chamber except a mighty pretty servant maid, he called her in a low voice to him, and said to her: "Sweetheart, I am dead, nay worse than dead, to see your mistress thus passing away. I know not what to do nor say, save that I put me in your hands, and pray you take the charge of my house and my children. Here are the keys that hang by my side. Prithee have a care to the household, for I can no more avail anything." The poor girl comforted him, and bade him not despair, and if she lost her mistress there was no need for her to lose her good master. He replied: "Sweetheart, it skills not talking, for I am at the point of death. See how cold is my face; put your cheeks close to mine to warm them." So saying he laid his hand ​to her breasts, at which she would have made some difficulty, but he prayed her not to be afraid, since it was necessary they should be very near to one another. Thereupon he took her in his arms and threw her on the bed. His wife, who had no company but the cross and the holy water, and had not spoken for the last two days, began with her weak voice to cry out as loudly as she was able: "Ah! Ah! Ah! I am not dead yet," And threatening them with her hand, she, called out: "Villain, strumpet, I am not dead yet." The husband and the servant, hearing her voice, arose, but so great was her wrath against them that the catarrhous humour which had hindered her speech was dissolved, and she poured out her anger in railing and calling them every evil name she could imagine. And from that hour she began to amend, and grew quite whole, often reproaching her husband for the small love he had for her.

"You see, ladies, the hypocrisy of men, and how readily they console them for the loss of their wives!" "How do you know," said Hircan, "that he had not heard that this was the best cure for his wife's disease? For since by kind treatment he could do nothing, he would try whether the contrary would avail anything, and had very good success therein. And I marvel that you, being women, have manifested the complexion of your kind that is recovered by ill-treatment rather than good." "There's not a doubt on it," said Longarine, "such a cure would have raised me not only from my bed but from the very grave." "But what wrong did he to her," said Saffredent, "to take some small consolation when he thought she had been dead? For it is well known that the bonds of marriage endure but for life, and afterwards one is loosed from them." "Ay," said Oisille, "loosed from one's oath, but in a steadfast heart love always remains. And his grief was soon forgotten, since he did not wait till she had breathed her last." "But what is most marvellous in mine eyes," said Nomerfide, "is that, seeing death and the cross before him, he had no fear to do God a displeasure." "A brave reason!" said Simontault, "You would not marvel then at wantonness, if it were done far from the church and the cemetery?" "Make a mock of me," said Nomerfide, "as you will, yet to think upon death makes the heart to grow cold, be it never so young." "I ​should be of your opinion," said Dagoucin, "had I not heard to the contrary from a princess." "That is to say," said Parlamente, "that she recounted to you some tale. Wherefore, if it be so, I give you my place for the telling of it." And Dagoucin began thus: