The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 72

In one of the fairest towns in France there is an hospital, well endowed—namely, with a prioress and fifteen or sixteen nuns, and in another part of the building a prior and seven or eight monks. And these day by day sang their offices, and those were content with paternosters and the Hours of Our Ladye, since they were altogether occupied in the service of the sick. One day there was a poor man at the point of death, and all the nuns were around him, who, after they had done all that was in their power for his health, sent for one of the monks to confess him. Then seeing he still grew weaker, extreme unction was given him, and little by little he lost the power of speech. But insomuch as he tarried a long time and did not pass, and seemed able to hear them, each of the nuns set herself to speak to him after the best sort she could, whereat at length they grew weary; and when night was come and he was still alive, one by one they went away to bed. And there remained, for the making of the body ready for burial, but one of the youngest nuns and a monk, whom she feared more than the prior or any other by reason of the great austerity of his words and life. And when they had duly chanted their hours in the dead man's ear they saw that he was dead, so they made him ready for burial. But in the exercising of this last work of mercy the monk fell to speaking on the miseries of this life and the exceeding happiness of death, and while he discoursed to this effect it struck midnight. The poor girl listened with due attention to his words, and looked on him with tears in her eyes, whereat he took such delight that, speaking of the life to come, he began to embrace her, as if he desired to carry her in his arms to Paradise. She, accounting him for the most devout of all the monks, durst not refuse him, and perceiving this, speaking of God all the while, he did on her the work that the ​devil had of a sudden put into his heart; for before he had never attempted any such thing. And he persuaded her that a sin that is done in secret is not imputed to men by God, that two people with no ties could do no offence in this manner, if there was no scandal, to the avoidance of which she must take heed to confess to none but him. So they departed thence, she going first; and passing through the Ladye Chapel, she would say her prayers therein, as she was wont. But when she began: "Virgin Mary," she remembered that she had lost, on no love nor compulsion, but through a foolish fear, the style and title of virginity, and so bitterly did she weep that it seemed as though her heart would break. The monk, hearing the noise of her lamentation from afar, feared lest she was converted and his pleasure lost to him, and coming to her found her with her face to the ground before Our Lady. Therefore he sharply rebuked her, and said that if she made it a matter of conscience, she might confess to him, and be quit of him if she would; for one way or the other there was no sin.

The foolish nun, thinking to make satisfaction before God, went to confession, but for penance he only swore that she sinned not at all to love him, and such a petty fault could be washed away with holy water. She, trusting more in him than in God, returned at the end of some time to his obedience, in such sort that she became great with child. At this sorely vexed, she prayed the prioress to drive away the monk from the convent, since he was so crafty that he would not fail to seduce her. The prior and the prioress, who dwelt in good accord together, made a mock of her, telling her she was big enough to defend herself against a man, and that he of whom she spoke was too devout to do such a deed. At last, driven by the gnawing of her conscience, she craved leave of them to go to Rome, for she thought, if she could but confess her sins at the feet of the Pope, her maidenhead would come back to her. This the prior and the prioress granted her with a good will, for they had rather that against their rule she should go on a pilgrimage, than continue within the convent with her present scruples. And they feared also lest in her despair she should blaze abroad the life that was led in the convent, and so he gave her money for her journey. But God willed that she should be in the rood-gallery of the church of St. John at Lyon, after evensong; ​and there was also in the church the Lady of Alençon, who was afterwards Queen of Navarre, who was privily performing a nine days' devotion, having with her three or four of her women. And she, kneeling on her, knees before the rood, heard some one mounting the stair to the loft, and by the light of the lamp perceived that it was a nun. And to the end that she might hear her devotions the Duchess withdrew herself to a dark corner hard-by the altar. But the nun, who thought she was alone, fell on her knees, and beating her breast, wept so that it was pitiful to hear her, crying all the while: "My God, my God, have mercy upon me a sinner!" The Duchess, so as to come at the root of the matter, drew near to her and said: "Sweetheart, what ails you, and whence come you, and what brings you hither?" The poor nun, who knew her not, answered and said: "Alas, sweetheart, so great is my woe that I look to God alone, and pray Him to grant me the means of speaking to the Duchess of Alençon, since I am assured if there be cure for my sickness she will find it out." "Sweetheart," said the Duchess, "you may speak to me as to her, for I am of her most familiar acquaintance." "Nay," said the nun, "no other than she shall be advertised of my secret." Then the Duchess told her that she might speak freely, since she had found that she sought for; and the poor woman threw herself at her feet, and told her the whole matter, as you have heard it, and how she fell into her mischance. The Duchess comforted her so well that she still left her a continual repentance for her sin; but put out of her brain the intent to go to Rome. And so she sent her back to her priory with letters to the bishop of the diocese charging him to drive away that shameful monk.

"This story the Duchess herself told to me, and by it you can see, ladies, that Nomerfide's nostrum is not fitting for all sorts and conditions. For these two touching the dead were not less touched by lust." "Verily," said Hircan, "this was a thing that never man did before, namely, to speak of death and to do the works of life." "Sin is no work of life," said Oisille, "for 'tis well known that sin brings death." "Trust me," said Saffredent, "the poor folk thought nothing of theology or the like. But as the daughters of Lot made their father to be drunken that the race of man might be continued, ​so they would fain have repaired what death had done by making a new man in the place thereof; wherefore I see no ill in the affair save the tears of the nun, who still wept and still came back to the cause of her weeping." "I have known many like her," said Hircan, "who at the same time bewail their sins and rejoice in their pleasures." "I suspect I know," said Parlamente, "of whom you speak, but their rejoicing hath lasted so long that it were time for the lamentation to begin." "Hush, mistress," said Hircan, "the tragedy that began with laughter is not yet ripe for its end." "To change the matter of my discourse," said Parlamente, "methinks Dagoucin hath departed from our fixed resolve and ordinance, namely, to tell none but pleasant tales, while his was very pitiful." "You have said," answered Dagoucin, "that we should only speak of wantonness; and I, methinks, have not failed to do so; but that we may hear some more pleasant case I give my vote to Nomerfide, in the hope that she may repair my fault." "And I have a tale ready," said she, "meet to follow yours, since it too runs on death and the monks. Wherefore, if it be your pleasure, give ear."

[Here end the Novels of the late Queen of Navarre, since no more of them can be found.—Note at the end of the edition of 1559.]