The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 9

In the coasts of Dauphiné and Provence there lived a gentleman whose riches stood rather in virtuousness, a brave address, and an honourable heart, than in gold or worldly gear. And he loved a maid, as to whose name I will say nothing, since she came of a most illustrious house; but be you none the less assured that my tale is the whole truth. And for that he came not of such gentle blood as she did, he was unwilling to make manifest his love to her, since this love of his was so perfect that he would rather die than cause her any dishonour. So perceiving that, compared with her, he was of low estate, he had no hope of marrying with her. Wherefore his love was bottomed upon this and this alone—to love her with all his whole might; and this he did, and for so long a time that at last she was advised thereof. And seeing that the love he bore her was honourable, and bore fruit in seemly and virtuous talk, she was well pleased to be loved by such an one, and carried herself so graciously toward him that he, who hoped for nothing better, was well contented therein. But malice, that suffers no one of us to be at rest, could not leave this goodly manner of living in peace, for certain ones must needs go tell the mother that it was matter of astonishment to them that this gentleman was made of such account in her house, that it was common talk that the daughter brought him there, and that she had often been seen to talk with him. The mother, who had no more doubt as to this gentleman's honour than that of her own children, was much troubled to hear his presence was taken in bad part, so that at last, fearing the scandalous tongues of men, she entreated him that for some while he would come no more to her house as his custom had been. And this he found tough matter of digestion, knowing that the honest talk he had with the maid deserved not this estrangement. All the same, to shut evil mouths, he kept away for some time, till the rumour was hushed, and then went as before, his love being in no wise lessened by absence. But one day, being in the house, he heard some talk of marrying his mistress to a gentleman who was not so rich as to rightly carry ​this point over him. So he forthwith took heart, and began to use his friends' offices on his behalf, thinking that if the lady had to choose he would be preferred. But the mother and kinsfolk chose the other man, for that he had the greater wealth, at which the poor gentleman took so much despair, knowing his sweetheart to be as much grieved as himself, that little by little, without any sickness, he began to consume away, and in a short time was so much changed that he seemed to have covered the beauty of his face with the mask of death, whither hour by hour he was joyously hastening.

Yet he could not restrain himself from going to speak as often as might be with her he loved so well. But at last, since his strength failed him, he was constrained to keep to his bed, not wishing his mistress to be advertised of this lest she too should have part in his woe. And giving himself up to black choler and despair, he left off both drinking and eating, sleep and rest, in such sort that for the wasting away of his countenance he could scarcely be known. And some one bringing tidings of this to the mother of the maid, she, being a woman full of charity, and liking the gentleman in such fashion that if the kinsfolk had been of her and her daughter's mind, she would have been better pleased with his honest heart than all the riches of another, went to see this unfortunate, whom she found more dead than alive. And perceiving that his end drew near, he had that morning made confession of his sins, and received the blessed sacrament, thinking to die without the sight of any one. But though he was within a span of death, when he saw her enter who was for him the resurrection and the life, he was so much revived that, starting up from his bed, he said to the mother: "What has brought you here, mistress, to visit him who has one foot in the grave, and of whose death you are the cause?" "How can it be," she said, "that you receive death from our hands, who love you so well? I pray you tell me wherefore you hold this manner of discourse." "Mistress," said he. "although I have, as far as lay within me, concealed the love I bore your daughter, yet my kinsfolk in speaking of our marriage have made too evident my thoughts. Hence I have lost hope, not on account of my privy pleasure, but because I know that at the hands of no other man will she receive as good love and contentment. Her loss ​of the best and most affectionate friend she has in the world does me more hurt than the loss of my life, which for her sake alone I was fain to preserve. But since it can now no more avail her anything, the loss of it is to me great gain." At this discourse the mother and daughter laboured to console him, the mother saying: "Take heart, my friend, for if it please God to give you back your health, I promise you my daughter shall be your wife. See! she is here, and I command her also to make this promise to you." And the daughter, with much weeping, laboured to assure him of that her mother promised. But he, well knowing that if he recovered his health, he could not have her to wife, and that all this pleasant talk of theirs was only in some sort to revive him, answered them that if they had said all this three months ago he would be the stoutest and the most happy of all the gentlemen in France, but that help had come too late to him, for whom hope was no more. And when he saw that they still laboured to persuade him he spoke as follows: "Since you, on account of my feeble case, promise to me that which, even if you would have it so, can never pertain to me, I ask you to grant me somewhat less, which I have never had the boldness to require at your hands." Straightway they promised, and confirmed their promise with an oath, whereupon he said: "I beseech you that you place her whom you pledge me for a wife between my arms, and charge her that she both embrace and kiss me." The maid, not accustomed to such dalliance, made some difficulty, but her mother straightly charged her, seeing that the gentleman was rather to be counted among the dead than the living, and she went up to the bed of the sick man, saying to him: "Sweetheart, I pray thee be of good cheer." Then this poor soul stretched out his arms, all skin and bone, as well as he could, and kissed with a fervent kiss the cause of his death, and holding her to his cold and bloodless mouth kept her there as long as he could. And furthermore he spoke to her: "The love I have had towards you hath been so seemly and honest that I have never desired more bliss of you than that I now possess, by which, and with which I gladly commend my soul to God, who is perfect love, who knoweth my soul that it is great, and my love that it is without stain. And now, since within my arms I hold my desire, I entreat Him in His arms to take my ​soul." And at this he pressed her between his arms with such good will that his enfeebled heart was not able to bear it, and was voided of its radical humours, which joy had so used that his soul fled her seat and returned to her Creator. And though the poor body had lain a long while without life, and was therefore unable any more to hold fast its treasure, the love which the maiden had always kept concealed was now made so manifest that her mother and the servants had much ado to draw them apart; but by force they took at last the living-dead from the dead, for whom they made honourable burial. And of this the crowning point was in the weeping and lamentations of that poor maid, who in like measure, as she had kept her secret while her lover was yet alive, so made it manifest when he was dead, as if in some sort to make satisfaction for the wrong she had done him. And notwithstanding that they gave her a husband for her contentment, never more, so the story goes, did she take any pleasure in her life.

"Do you not agree, gentlemen, though you would not before believe me, that this example suffices to prove that perfect love may bring men to death, if it be top much hidden from view? There is none amongst you who does not know the kinsfolk on both sides, wherefore there is no room for you to doubt that it is the truth." At this the ladies with one consent fell to weeping, but Hircan said to them: "Verily he was the greatest fool of whom I have ever heard. Is it according to reason, prithee, that we should die for women, who are made but for us? or that we should be afraid to require of them what God has commanded them to give us? I speak not for myself or married men, for I have as much as I desire, but my words are for those in need, whom I account fools to be afraid of those who should be afraid of them. And do you not mark how great was this maiden's regret for her folly? Since, if she would embrace the body of a dead man—a thing against nature—how much the more would she have embraced him when alive, had he had courage to require it of her." "All the same," said Oisille, "the gentleman most plainly displayed how honourable a love he had towards her, and for this he is worthy to be had in everlasting remembrance, for to find chastity in an enamoured heart, this, indeed, is mighty rare." "Mistress," said Saffredent, "to confirm the opinion of Hircan, ​which is likewise mine, I would have you believe that fortune favours the daring, and that there is no man beloved by woman who, if he do his courting with wisdom and gracious ways, will not attain at last to the desire of his heart; but ignorance and a foolish fear makes us lose many a good chance, and we then put down our loss to our mistress' virtue, when we have not so much as touched her with the tips of our fingers. Believe me, a fortress assailed is a fortress gained." "I am astonished," said Parlamente, "that you two dare hold such discourse. The ladies you have loved owe you but little thanks, or you have done your service in so bad a quarter that you think all women are like these queans of yours." "I," replied Saffredent, "have the misfortune not to be able to boast of any great success; but I lay my bad luck less to the virtue of the ladies than to my own lack of wisdom and forethought in going about the matter, and to this intent will put, in the words of the old woman in the Romance of the Rose: 'We are all made, fair sirs, for one another; every woman for every man, and every man for every woman.' Wherefore I cannot believe but that, when love is once in session on a woman's heart, her lover will bring matters to a good conclusion, if he be not plainly a blockhead." Parlamente said: "But if I could name a woman, strongly beloved, strongly importuned, and strongly pressed, and all the while an honest woman, victorious over her flesh, her love, and her lover, would you not believe it for the truth that it is?" "Why yes," said he, "Then indeed," said Parlamente, "you would be hard of faith and slow to believe if you were not won by an example I could give you." Dagoucin said to her: "Mistress, since I have shown, by an example, how a virtuous man loved even unto death, I beseech you, if you know any such relation as to woman, to tell it and so bring to a close this day's entertainment, and fear not to speak somewhat at length, for there yet remains abundance of time to discourse many a pleasant case." "Since then," said Parlamente, "I am to bring a close to the day, I will not make a long beginning to my story, for so fine a history have I to relate that I am fain you as well as I should know it. And though my eyes have informed me nothing concerning it, I was told it by one of my most familiar friends to the praise of the man who had of all the world loved ​most. And he enjoined me that, if I ever told it, I should change the name of the persons therein; so thati t is, excepting names and places, the whole truth and nothing else."