Chapter III: Part 3

“Alas! madam, what change is this in the lady Florida? I was never so astonished before, for, as I have told you, I thought I had a share in her favour; but I now see clearly that I have lost it all. While she was being brought up by you, she was, I think, no less discreet or virtuous than she is at present; however, she had then no qualms of conscience about speaking with any one. But now, when I sought to look at her, she would not suffer me to do so. When I saw this behaviour on her part I thought I must be dreaming, and asked her for her hand to kiss it after the manner of the country. This she utterly refused me. I acknowledge, madam, that then I acted wrongfully, and I entreat your pardon for it; for I took her hand, as it were by force, and kissed it. I asked nothing more of her, but I believe that she intends my death, for she called out to you as you know. Why she did this I cannot tell, unless indeed she feared that I had some other purpose in view. Nevertheless, madam, be this as it may, I confess that I am in the wrong; for although she ought to love all who are devoted to you, fortune wills it that I, who am of all most attached to her, am banished from her good graces. Still, I shall ever continue the same both to you and to her; and I entreat you to continue me in your good favour since, by no fault of my own, I have now lost hers.”

The Countess, who partly believed and partly suspected him, went up to her daughter and asked--“Why did you call me so loudly?”

Florida replied that she had felt afraid; and, although the Countess questioned her minutely on many points, she would give no other reply. Finding that she had escaped from her enemy she deemed him sufficiently punished by the failure of his attempt.

After the Countess had had a long conversation with Amadour, she suffered him to speak again in her presence with Florida, to see how he would behave. He said but little, save that he thanked her for not having confessed the truth to her mother, and begged that since she had expelled him from her heart, she would at least allow no other to take his place.

“If my voice had not been my only means of defending myself,” she replied, “it would never have been heard; and from me you shall have no worse punishment, if you do not force me to it by troubling me again as you have done. Do not fear that I can ever love another; since I have not found the good I wished for in a heart that I considered to be the most virtuous in the world, I do not expect to find it in any man. This evil fortune will henceforth free me of all the passion that love can give.”

With these words she bade him farewell.

Her mother, who had been watching her face, was unable to form any opinion; though from that time forth she clearly saw that her daughter had lost all affection for Amadour. She imagined her so devoid of reason as to hate everything that she herself loved; and from that hour she warred with her in a strange way, spending seven years without speaking to her except in anger, all which she did at Amadour’s request.

Meanwhile, on account of her mother’s harsh treatment, Florida’s former dread of being with her husband was changed into a desire of never leaving him. Seeing, however, that all her efforts were useless, she resolved to deceive Amadour, and laying aside her coldness for a day or two, she advised him to pay court to a lady who, she said, had been speaking of their love.

This lady lived with the Queen of Spain, and was called Loretta. Amadour believed the story, and, thinking that he might in this way regain Florida’s good graces, he made love to Loretta, who was the wife of a captain, one of the viceroys of the King of Spain. She, in her pleasure at having gained such a lover, showed so much elation that the affair was rumoured abroad. Even the Countess of Aranda, who was at Court, had knowledge of it, and thenceforward treated Florida less harshly than before.

One day Florida heard that the captain, Loretta’s husband, had grown jealous, and was resolved to kill Amadour in one way or another as best he might. In spite of her altered treatment of Amadour, Florida did not desire that evil should befall him, and so she immediately informed him of what she had heard. He was quite ready to hark back again to his first love, and thereupon told her that, if she would grant him three hours of her conversation every day, he would never again speak to Loretta. But this she would not grant. “Then,” said Amadour, “if you will not give me life, why prevent me from dying, unless indeed you hope to make me suffer more pain during life than any death could cause? But though death shun me, I will seek it until I find it; then only shall I have rest.”

While they were on this footing, news came that the King of Granada (22) was entering upon a great war against the King of Spain. The latter, therefore, sent the Prince, his son, (23) to the war, and with him the Constable of Castille and the Duke of Alba, (24) two old and prudent lords. The Duke of Cardona and the Count of Aranda were unwilling to remain behind, and prayed the King to give them some command. This he did as befitted their rank, and gave them into the safe keeping of Amadour, who performed such extraordinary deeds during the war, that they seemed to be acts as much of despair as of bravery.

22 The last King of Granada was Mahomed Boabdil, dethroned
in 1493. The title may have been assumed, however, by the
leader of an insurrection.--D.

23 As Ferdinand and Isabella had no son, the reference must
be to their daughter’s husband, Philip the Fair of Austria,
son of the Emperor Maximilian I. and father of Charles V.--
B. J.

24 Frederick of Toledo, Marquis of Coria and Duke of Alba,
generally called the old Duke of Alba to distinguish him
from his son.--B. J.

Coming now to the point of my story, I have to relate how his overboldness was proved by his death. The Moors had made a show of offering battle, and finding the Christian army very numerous had feigned a retreat. The Spaniards started in pursuit, but the old Constable and the Duke of Alba, who suspected the trickery of the Moors, restrained the Prince of Spain against his will from crossing the river. The Count of Aranda, however, and the Duke of Cardona crossed, although it was forbidden; and when the Moors saw that they were pursued by only a few men they faced about again. The Duke of Cardona was struck down and killed with a blow of a scimitar, and the Count of Aranda was so grievously wounded that he was left for dead. Thereupon Amadour came up filled with rage and fury, and bursting through the throng, caused the two bodies to be taken up and carried to the camp of the Prince, who mourned for them as for his own brothers. On examining their wounds the Count of Aranda was found to be still alive, and was sent in a litter to his home, where he lay ill for a long time. On the other hand, the Duke’s body was sent back to Cardona.

Meanwhile Amadour, having made this effort to rescue the two bodies, had thought so little of his own safety that he found himself surrounded by a large number of Moors. Not desiring his person to be captured any more than he had captured that of his mistress, nor to break his faith with God as he had broken faith with her--for he knew that, if he were taken to the King of Granada, he must either die a cruel death or renounce Christianity--he resolved to withhold from his enemies the glory either of his death or capture. So kissing the cross of his sword and commending his body and soul to God, he dealt himself such a thrust as to be past all help.

Thus died the unhappy Amadour, lamented as deeply as his virtues deserved. The news spread through the whole of Spain; and the rumour of it came to Florida, who was at Barcelona, where her husband had formerly commanded that he should be buried. She gave him an honourable funeral, (25) and then, without saying anything to her mother or mother-in-law, she became a nun in the Convent of Jesus, taking for husband and lover Him who had delivered her from such a violent love as that of Amadour’s, and from such great affliction as she had endured in the company of her husband. Thus were all her affections directed to the perfect loving of God; and, after living for a long time as a nun, she yielded up her soul with gladness, like that of the bride when she goes forth to meet the bridegroom.

25 The Franciscan monastery of the little village cf
Bellpuig, near Lerida, contains the tomb of Ramon de
Cardona, termed one of the marvels of Catalonia on account
of the admirable sculptures adorning it. One of the
beautiful white marble bas-reliefs shows a number of galleys
drawn up in line of battle, whilst some smaller boats are
conveying parties of armed men to a river-bank on which the
Moors are awaiting them in hostile array. On the frieze of
an arch the Spaniards and Moors are shown fighting, many of
the former retreating towards the water. An inscription
records that the tomb was raised to the best of husbands by
Isabella, his unhappy spouse.

Margaret gives the name of Florida to the wife of the Duke
whom she mentions, but it should be borne in mind that she
has systematically mingled fact with fiction throughout this
story; and that she was alluding to the Duke buried at
Bellpuig seems evident from an examination of the bas-
reliefs mentioned above. Ramon de Cardona was, however, a
more important personage than she pictures him. He became
Charles V.’s viceroy in Naples, and did not die till 1520,
whereas Margaret’s story appears to end in or about 1513.
Possibly she saw the tomb when in Spain.--Ed.

“I am well aware, ladies, that this long tale may have been wearisome to some among you, but had I told it as it was told to me it would have been longer still. Take example, I beg you, by the virtue of Florida, but be somewhat less cruel; and think not so well of any man that, when you are undeceived, you occasion him a cruel death and yourselves a life of sorrow.”

Having had a long and fair hearing Parlamente said to Hircan--

“Do you not think that this lady was pressed to extremities and that she held out virtuously?”

“No,” said Hircan; “a woman can make no more feeble resistance than to cry out. If she had been in a place where none could hear her I do not know how she would have fared. And if Amadour had had more love and less fear he would not have desisted from his attempt for so little. So this story will not cause me to change my firm opinion that no man ever perfectly loved a lady, or was loved by her, that he did not prove successful if only he went the right way to work. Nevertheless, I must praise Amadour for having in part done his duty.”

“What duty?” asked Oisille. “Do you call it a lover’s duty to try and take his mistress by force when he owes her all reverence and submission?”

Here Saffredent took up the discourse.

“Madam,” he said, “when our mistresses hold their state in chamber or hall, seated at their ease as though they were our judges, we lead them to the dance in fear; we wait upon them with all diligence and anticipate their commands; and we are so afraid of offending them and so desirous of doing them service that those who see us pity us, and often deem us more witless than brutes. They account us dull and void of understanding, and give praise to the ladies, whose faces are so imperious and their speech so fair that they make themselves feared, loved, and honoured by those who only know them outwardly. But when we are together in private, and love alone can judge our behaviour, we know full well that they are women and we are men. Then is the name ‘mistress’ changed to ‘sweetheart,’ and the ‘slave’ becomes a ‘lover.’ As the proverb says--‘By service true and loyalty, do servants rise to mastery.’ They have honour equally with men, who can give it to them and can take it away; and seeing us suffer in patience, they should reward us when they can do so without hurt to their honour.”

“You do not speak of that true honour,” said Longarine, “which is the greatest happiness this world can give. If every one calls me a virtuous woman, and I myself know the contrary, the praise I receive only increases my shame and puts me in secret to still greater confusion. In the same way, if people condemn me and I know that I am innocent, their condemnation will only make me the better pleased with myself.”

“In spite of what you all have said,” interposed Geburon, “it seems to me that Amadour was as noble and virtuous a knight as ever lived, and I think I can recognise him under his feigned name. Since Parlamente would not name him, neither will I. But you may rest assured that, if he be the man whom I have in mind, his heart never knew fear, nor was ever void of love and bravery.”

“The day has been spent so pleasantly,” said Oisille, “that if the others are like it I think our talk will make the time pass quickly by. But see where the sun is, and listen to the abbey bell, which has long been calling us to vespers. I did not mention this to you before, for I was more inclined to hear the end of the story than to go to prayers.”

At these words they all rose, and when they reached the abbey they found that the monks had been waiting for them a full hour and more. After vespers they went to supper, and during the whole evening they conversed about the stories they had heard, all of them searching every corner of their memories to try and make the second day as pleasant as the first. And after playing many games in the meadow they went to bed, and so made a glad and happy ending of the first day.

SECOND DAY.

_On the Second Day is recounted the first conceit that presents itself to each_.

PROLOGUE.

On the morrow they rose in great eagerness to return to the place where they had had so much pleasure on the previous day. Each one was ready with a tale, and was impatient for the telling of it. They listened to the reading of Madame Oisille, and then heard mass, all commending themselves to God, and praying Him to grant them speech and grace for the continuance of their fellowship. Afterwards they went to dinner, reminding one another the while of many stories of the past.

After dinner, they rested in their apartments, and at the appointed time returned to the meadow, where day and season alike seemed favourable to their plans. They all sat down on the natural seat afforded by the green sward, and Parlamente said--

“Yesterday I told the tenth and last tale; it is therefore for me to choose who shall begin to-day. Madame Oisille was the first of the ladies to speak, as being the oldest and wisest, and so I now give my vote to the youngest--I do not also say the flightiest--for I am sure that if we all follow her leading we shall not delay vespers so long as we did yesterday. Wherefore, Nomerfide, you shall lead us, but I beg that you will not cause us to begin our second day in tears.”

“There was no need to make that request,” said Nomerfide, “for one of our number has made me choose a tale which has taken such a hold on me that I can tell no other; and should it occasion sadness in you, your natures must be melancholy ones indeed.”

_TALE XI._ (A).

_Madame de Roncex, while at the monastery of the Grey Friars
at Thouars, (1) was constrained to go in great haste to a
certain place, and, not looking to see whether the seats
were clean, sat down in a filthy spot and befouled both her
person and clothes; whereupon crying out for assistance, in
the hope that some woman would come and cleanse her, she was
waited on by men, who beheld her in the worst plight in
which a woman could be found_. (2)

1 In the department of the Deux-Sèvres.--Ed.

2 This story, given in Boaistuau’s version of Margaret’s
tales, and to be found in most of the MS. copies of the
_Heptameron_ at the ‘Paris Bibliothèque Nationale’, was not
included in the edition issued by Gruget, who replaced it by
a story called _The jests made by a Grey Friar_, for which
see _post_, p. 95 _et seq_.--Ed.

In the household of Madame de la Trémoille there was a lady named Roncex, who one day, when her mistress had gone to visit the monastery of the Grey Friars, found herself in great need to go to a certain place whither her maid could not go in her stead. She took with her a girl named La Mothe to keep her company, but being modest and unwilling to be seen, left her in the room, and went alone into a darksome privy, a place used in common by all the friars, who had given such a good account therein of all their victuals, that seat and floor, and in sooth the whole place, were thickly covered with the must of Bacchus and Ceres that had passed through the friars’ bellies.

The unhappy lady, who was so hard pressed that she had scarcely time to lift her dress, chanced to sit down in the foulest, dirtiest spot in the whole place, where she found herself stuck fast as though with glue, her poor hips, garments, and feet being so contaminated that she durst not take a step or turn on any side, for fear lest she should meet with something worse. Thereupon she began to call out as loudly as she could--

“La Mothe, my child, I am ruined and undone!”

The poor girl, who had formerly heard tell of the wickedness of the Grey Friars, and imagined that some of them were hidden there and were trying to take her mistress by force, thereupon ran off as hard as she could, saying to every one she met--

“Come and help Madame de Roncex; the Grey Friars are trying to ravish her in yonder privy.”

They thereupon hastened thither with all speed, and found the unhappy lady crying out for assistance, longing for some woman to come and cleanse her, and with her back parts all uncovered, for she feared to touch them with her garments lest these also should be defiled.

The gentlemen, coming in at her cries, beheld this fine sight, but could see nought of the Grey Friars, unless it were their ordure clinging to her hips; nor did this pass without laughter on their part and great shame on hers, for instead of having women to cleanse her, she was waited on by men, who saw her naked, and in the sorriest plight in which a woman could be found. For this reason, on perceiving them, she soiled what was still clean, by dropping her garments in order to cover herself, forgetting the filth that she was in for the shame she felt at sight of the men. And when she had come out of that foul place it was necessary to strip her naked and change all her garments before she could leave the monastery. She was minded to be angry with La Mothe for the aid that she had brought her, but finding that the poor girl had thought her in a yet more evil plight, she put aside her wrath and laughed like the rest. (3)

3 It is impossible to identify the lady mentioned in this
story, her name being spelt in so many ways in the various
MSS. of the _Heptameron_. It is given as Roncex in the copy
here followed, as Roubex in a copy that belonged to Louis
XVIII., and as Roncci in the De Thou MS., whilst Boaistuau
printed it as Roucey. The Madame de la Trémoille, alluded to
at the outset, is believed by Lacroix and Dillaye to have
been Anne de Laval (daughter of Guy XV., Count of Laval, and
of Charlotte of Aragon, Princess of Tarento), who married
Francis de la Trémoille, Viscount of Thouars, in 1521, and
was by her mother a cousin of Queen Margaret. Possibly,
however, the reference is to Gabrielle de Bourbon, wife of
Louis II. de la Trémoille, a lady of exemplary piety, who
erected the beautiful Renaissance chapel of the château of
Thouars.--L. & Ed.

“I think, ladies,” said Nomerfide, “that this story has proved neither long nor melancholy, and that I have given you what you expected.”

At this the company laughed heartily, and Oisille said--“The story is indeed nasty and unclean, yet, knowing the persons who fared in this manner, we cannot consider it unwelcome. Gladly would I have seen the faces of La Mothe and of the lady to whom she brought such timely aid. But now,” she added to Nomerfide, “since you have finished so soon, give your vote to some one whose thoughts are of a graver turn.”

“Since you desire me to atone for my fault,” answered Nomerfide, “I give my vote to Dagoucin, whose discretion is such that he would die rather than say anything foolish.”

Dagoucin then thanked her for the esteem in which she held his good sense, and thus began--“The story I am minded to relate is intended to show you how love blinds the greatest and most honourable hearts, and how hard it is to overcome wickedness by any kindness whatsoever.”

[The Grey Friar telling his Tales]

_TALE XI._ (B).

_Of the jests made by a Grey Friar in his sermons_. (1)

1 See _ante_, p. 89, note 2, _and post_. Appendix B.

Near the town of Bléré in Touraine there is a village called St. Martin-le-Beau, whither a Grey Friar belonging to the monastery at Tours was summoned to preach during the seasons of Advent and Lent. This friar, who was more garrulous than learned, and now and then found himself at a loss for matter to eke out his hour, would thereupon begin telling tales which more or less agreeably satisfied the good villagers.

One Holy Thursday he preached about the Paschal Lamb, and while speaking of how it was eaten at night, seeing that there were present at the preaching some handsome young ladies of Amboise, who were newly arrived to keep Easter at the village, and to stay there for a few days afterwards, he wished to surpass himself, and thereupon asked all the women-folk whether they knew what it was to eat raw flesh at night. “I will tell you what it is, ladies,” he said, whereat the young men of Amboise, who had just arrived with their wives, sisters, and nieces, and who had no knowledge of the pilgrim’s humour, began to be scandalised; though on listening further their indignation gave place to laughter, even when he said that to eat the lamb it was needful to have one’s loins girt, one’s feet in one’s shoes, and one’s hand on one’s staff.

The friar, seeing them laugh at this, and guessing the reason, immediately corrected himself. “Well,” said he, “to have shoes on one’s feet and a staff in one’s hand; ‘tis all one.”

That this sally was received with laughter you will readily believe. Even the ladies could not refrain from merriment, and for them he added other diverting sayings. Then finding the time was nearly up, and wishing the ladies to be well pleased with him when they departed, he said to them--“Now, fair ladies, when you are chatting presently with your gossips, you will be asking one another: ‘Who, pray, is this Master Friar, that speaks out so boldly? He must be a brisk fellow.’ I will tell you, ladies, yes, I will tell you, and be not astonished if I speak out boldly, for I am of Anjou, at your service.”

With these words he ended his sermon, leaving his hearers more disposed to laugh at his foolish speeches than to weep in memory of our Lord’s Passion which was then being commemorated.

The other sermons that he preached during the festival had much the same value. You are aware that these friars never fail to go begging for their Easter eggs, and receive not only eggs, but many other things, such as linen, yarn, chitterlings, hams, chines, and similar trifles. So when Easter Tuesday came, and the friar was making those exhortations to charity of which such folks as he are no niggards, he said--

“I am bound to thank you, ladies, for the liberality you have shown to our poor monastery, and yet I cannot forbear telling you that you have hitherto not duly considered the nature of our wants. You have for the most part given us chitterlings, but of these we ourselves have no lack. God be praised, our monastery is indeed full of them. What then can we do with so many? I will tell you. My advice, ladies, is that you should mix your hams with our chitterlings; in this way you would bestow fine alms.”

Then, continuing his sermon, he brought into it certain scandalous matter, and, whilst discoursing upon it somewhat bluntly and quoting sundry examples, he said in apparent amazement--

“Truly, ladies and gentlemen of Saint-Martin, I am greatly astonished that you should be scandalised so unreasonably at what is less than nothing, and should tell tales of me wherever you go, saying: ‘It is a big business; who could have thought that the father would have got his landlady’s daughter with child?’ A monk get a girl with child!” he continued; “forsooth, what a wonder! But hark you, fair ladies, would you not rather have had cause for wonderment, had the girl acted thus by the monk?”

“Such, ladies, was the wholesome food on which this worshipful shepherd fed the Lord’s flock. And so brazen was he, that after committing the sin, he spake openly of it in the pulpit, where nought should be said that tends to aught but the edification of one’s neighbour, and above all to the glory of God.”

“Truly,” said Saffredent, “he was a master monk--I should have liked him nearly as well as Brother Anjibaut, who gets credit for all the jests that are spoken in merry company.”

“For my part, I can see nothing laughable in such mockery,” said Oisille, “especially in such a place.”

“You forget, madam,” said Nomerfide, “that at that time, though it was not so very long ago, the good villagers, and indeed most of the dwellers in the large towns, who think themselves cleverer than other people, had greater regard for such preachers as he than for those who purely and simply preached the holy Gospel to them.”

“However that may be,” said Hircan, “he was not wrong in asking for hams in exchange for chitterlings, for in hams there is far more eating. And even if some devout creature had understood him amphibologically, as I believe he wished to be understood, neither he nor his brethren would have fared badly any more than the wench that had her bag full.”

“But how impudent of him,” said Oisille, “to pervert the meaning of the text to suit his fancy, thinking that he had to do with beasts like himself, and shamelessly trying to entice the poor little women so that he might teach them how to eat raw flesh at night.”

“True,” said Simontault; “but you forget that he saw before him those young tripe-sellers of Amboise in whose tub he would fain have washed his ------ shall I name it? No, but you understand me--and have treated them to a taste of it, not roasted, but stirring and frisking, so as to please them the more.”

“Softly, softly, Simontault,” said Parlamente; “you forget yourself. Have you laid aside your accustomed modesty to don it only in time of necessity?”

“No, madam, no,” said he; “‘twas the unworthy monk that led me astray. Wherefore, that we may return to the matter in hand, I beg Nomerfide, who caused my offence, to give her vote to some one who will make the company forget our common fault.”

“Since you include me in your transgression,” said Nomerfide, “I will choose one who will atone for our failings, that is Dagoucin. He is so discreet that to save his life he would not say a foolish thing.”

[The Gentleman killing the Duke]

_TALE XII_.

_The Duke of Florence, having continually failed to make
known to a certain lady the love he bore her, confided in
her brother, and begged his assistance that he might attain
his ends. This, after many remonstrances, the brother agreed
to give, but it was a lip-promise only, for at the moment
when the Duke was expecting to vanquish her whom he had
deemed invincible, the gentleman slew him in his bed, in
this fashion freeing his country from a tyrant, and saving
both his own life and the honour of his house_. (1)

1 The basis of this story is historical. The event here
described--one of the most famous in the annals of
Florence--furnished Alfred de Musset with the subject of his
play _Lorenzaccio_, and served as the foundation of _The
Traitor_, considered to be Shirley’s highest achievement as
a dramatic poet. As Queen Margaret’s narrative contains
various errors of fact, Sismondi’s account of the affair, as
borrowed by him from the best Italian historians, is given
in the Appendix, C--Eu.

Ten years ago there reigned in the city of Florence a Duke of the house of Medici who had married the Emperor’s natural daughter, Margaret. (2) She was still so young that the marriage could not be lawfully consummated, and, waiting till she should be of a riper age, the Duke treated her with great gentleness, and to spare her, made love to various ladies of the city, whom he was wont to visit at night, whilst his wife was sleeping.

2 The Duke here referred to was Alexander de’ Medici, first
Duke of Florence, in which city he was born in 1510. His
mother, a slave named Anna, was the wife of a Florentine
coachman, but Lorenzo II. de’ Medici, one of this woman’s
lovers, acknowledged him as his offspring, though, according
to some accounts, his real father was one of the popes,
Clement VII. or Julius II. After the Emperor Charles V. had
made himself master of Florence in 1530, he confided the
governorship of the city to Alexander, upon whom he bestowed
the title of Duke. Two years later Alexander threw off the
imperial control, and soon afterwards embarked on a career
of debauchery and crime. In 1536, Charles V., being desirous
of obtaining the support of Florence against France, treated
with Alexander, and gave him the hand of his illegitimate
daughter, Margaret. The latter--whose mother was Margaret
van Gheenst, a Flemish damsel of noble birth--was at that
time barely fourteen, having been born at Brussels in 1522.
The Queen of Navarre’s statements concerning the
youthfulness of the Duchess are thus corroborated by fact.
After the death of Alexander de’ Medici, his widow was
married to Octavius Farnese, Duke of Parma, who was then
only twelve years old, but by whom she eventually became the
mother of the celebrated Alexander Farnese. Margaret of
Austria occupies a prominent place in the history of the
Netherlands, which she governed during a lengthy period for
her brother Philip II. She died in retirement at Ortonna in
Italy in 1586.--L. and Ed.

Among these there was one very beautiful, discreet, and honourable lady, sister to a gentleman whom the Duke loved even as himself, and to whom he gave such authority in his household that his orders were feared and obeyed equally with the Duke’s own. And moreover the Duke had no secrets that he did not share with this gentleman, so that the latter might have been called his second-self. (3)

3 The gentleman here mentioned was the Duke’s cousin,
Lorenzo di Pier-Francesco de’ Medici, commonly called
Lorenzino on account of his short stature. He was born at
Florence in 1514, and, being the eldest member of the junior
branch of the Medici family, it had been decided by the
Emperor Charles V. that he should succeed to the Dukedom of
Florence, if Alexander died without issue. Lorenzino
cultivated letters, and is said to have possessed
considerable wit, but, on the other hand, instead of being a
high-minded man, as Queen Margaret pictures him, he was a
thorough profligate, and willingly lent a hand in
Alexander’s scandalous amours. The heroine of this story is
erroneously described as Lorenzino’s sister; in point of
fact she was his aunt, Catherine Ginori. See Appendix, C.--
Ed.

Finding the gentleman’s sister to be a lady of such exemplary virtue that he was unable to declare his passion to her, though he sought all possible opportunities for doing so, the Duke at last came to his favourite and said to him--

“If there were anything in this world, my friend, that I might be unwilling to do for you, I should hesitate to tell you what is in my mind, and still more to beg your assistance. But such is the affection I bear you that had I wife, mother, or daughter who could avail to save your life, I would sacrifice them rather than allow you to die in torment. I believe that your love for me is the counterpart of mine for you, and that if I, who am your master, bear you so much affection, you, on your part, can have no less for me. I will therefore tell you a secret, the keeping of which has brought me to the condition you see. I have no hope of any improvement except it be through death or else the service which you are in a position to render me.”

On hearing these words from the Duke, and seeing his face unfeignedly bathed in tears, the gentleman felt such great pity for him that he said--

“Sir, I am your creature: all the wealth and honour that I am possessed of in this world come from you. You may speak to me as to your own soul, in the certainty that all that it be in my power to do is at your command.”

Thereupon the Duke began to tell him of the love he bore his sister, a love so deep and strong that he feared he could not live much longer unless, by the gentleman’s help, he succeeded in satisfying his desire. He was well aware that neither prayers nor presents would be of any avail with the lady, wherefore he begged the gentleman--if he cared for his master’s life as much as he, his master, cared for his--to devise some means of procuring him the good fortune which, without such assistance, he could never hope to obtain.

The brother, who loved his sister and the honour of his house far more than the Duke’s pleasure, endeavoured to remonstrate with him, entreating that he might be employed for any other purpose save the cruel task of soliciting the dishonour of his own kin, and declaring that the rendering of such a service was contrary alike to his inclinations and his honour.

Inflamed with excessive wrath, the Duke raised his hand to his mouth and bit his nails.

“Well,” said he in a fury, “since I find that you have no friendship for me, I know what I have to do.”

The gentleman, who was acquainted with his master’s cruelty, felt afraid, and answered--

“My lord, since such is your pleasure, I will speak to her, and tell you her reply.”

“If you show concern for my life, I shall show it for yours,” replied the Duke, and thereupon he went away.

The gentleman well understood the meaning of these words, and spent a day or two without seeing the Duke, considering what he should do. On the one hand he was confronted by the duty he owed his master, and the wealth and honours he had received from him; on the other by the honour of his house, and the fair fame and chastity of his sister. He well knew that she would never submit to such infamy unless through his own treachery she were overcome by violence, so unnatural a deed that if it were committed he and his kindred would be disgraced for ever. In this dilemma he decided that he would sooner die than so ill use his sister, who was one of the noblest women in all Italy, and ought rather to deliver his country of this tyrant who, abusing his power, sought to cast such a slur upon his family; for he felt sure that if the Duke were suffered to live, neither his own life nor the lives of his kindred would be safe. So without speaking of the matter to his sister or to any living creature, he determined to save his life and vindicate his honour at one and the same time. Accordingly, when a couple of days had gone by, he went to the Duke and told him that with infinite difficulty he had so wrought upon his sister that she had at last consented to do his will, provided that the matter were kept secret, and none but he, her brother, knew of it.

The Duke, who was longing for these tidings, readily believed them, and embracing the ambassador, promised him anything that he might ask. He begged him to put his scheme quickly into execution, and they agreed together upon the time when this should be done. The Duke was in great joy, as may well be imagined; and on the arrival of that wished-for night when he hoped to vanquish her whom he had deemed invincible, he retired early, accompanied only by the lady’s brother, and failed not to attire himself in a perfumed shirt and head-gear. Then, when every one was gone to rest, he went with the gentleman to the lady’s abode, where he was conducted into a well-appointed apartment.

Having undressed him and put him to bed, the gentleman said--

“My lord, I will now go and fetch you one who will assuredly not enter this room without blushing; but I hope that before morning she will have lost all fear of you.”

Leaving the Duke, he then went to his own room, where he found one of his servants, to whom he said--

“Are you brave enough to follow me to a place where I desire to avenge myself upon my greatest living enemy?”

The other, who was ignorant of his master’s purpose, replied--

“Yes, sir, though it were the Duke himself.”

Thereupon the gentleman led him away in such haste as to leave him no time to take any weapon except a poignard that he was wearing.

The Duke, on hearing the gentleman coming back again, thought that he was bringing the loved one with him, and, opening his eyes, drew back the curtains in order to see and welcome the joy for which he had so long been waiting. But instead of seeing her who, so he hoped, was to preserve his life, he beheld something intended to take his life away, that is, a naked sword which the gentleman had drawn, and with which he smote the Duke. The latter was wearing nothing but his shirt, and lacked weapons, though not courage, for sitting up in the bed he seized the gentleman round the body, saying--

“Is this the way you keep your promise?”

Then, armed as he was only with his teeth and nails, he bit the gentleman’s thumb, and wrestled with him so stoutly that they both fell down beside the bed.

The gentleman, not feeling altogether confident, called to his servant, who, finding the Duke and his master so closely twined together that he could not tell the one from the other, dragged them both by the feet into the middle of the room, and then tried to cut the Duke’s throat with his poignard. The Duke defended himself until he was so exhausted through loss of blood that he could do no more, whereupon the gentleman and his servant lifted him upon the bed and finished him with their daggers. They then drew the curtain and went away, leaving the dead body shut up in the room.

Having vanquished his great enemy, by whose death he hoped to free his country, the gentleman reflected that his work would be incomplete unless he treated five or six of the Duke’s kindred in the same fashion. The servant, however, who was neither a dare-devil nor a fool, said to him--

“I think, sir, that you have done enough for the present, and that it would be better to think of saving your own life than of taking the lives of others, for should we be as long in making away with each of them as we were in the case of the Duke, daylight would overtake our enterprise before we could complete it, even should we find our enemies unarmed.”

Cowed by his guilty conscience, the gentleman followed the advice of his servant, and taking him alone with him, repaired to a Bishop (4) whose office it was to have the city gates opened, and to give orders to the guard-posts.

4 Probably Cardinal Cybo, Alexander’s chief minister, who
according to Sismondi, was the first to discover the
murder.--Ed.

“I have,” said the gentleman to the Bishop, “this evening received tidings that one of my brothers is at the point of death. I have just asked leave of the Duke to go to him, and he has granted it me; and I beg you to send orders that the guards may furnish me with two good horses, and that the gatekeeper may let me through.”

The Bishop, who regarded the gentleman’s request in the same light as an order from his master the Duke, forthwith gave him a note, by means of which the gate was opened for him, and horses supplied to him as he had requested; but instead of going to see his brother he betook himself straight to Venice, where he had himself cured of the bites that he had received from the Duke, and then passed over into Turkey. (5)

5 On leaving Florence, Lorenzo repaired first to Bologna
and then to Venice, where he informed Philip Strozzi of how
he had rid his country of the tyrant. After embracing him in
a transport, and calling him the Tuscan Brutus, Strozzi
asked the murderer’s sisters, Laudamina and Magdalen de’
Medici, in marriage for his own sons, Peter and Robert. From
Venice Lorenzino issued a _mémoire justificatif_, full of
quibbles and paradoxes, in which he tried to explain his
lack of energy after the murder by the indifference shown by
the Florentines. He took no part in the various enterprises
directed against Cosmo de’ Medici, who had succeeded
Alexander at Florence. Indeed his chief concern was for his
own safety, which was threatened alike by Cosmo and the
Emperor Charles V., and to escape their emissaries he
proceeded to Turkey, and thence to France, ultimately
returning to Venice, where, despite all his precautions
against danger, he was assassinated in 1547, together with
his uncle, Soderini, by some spadassins in the pay of Cosmo
I.--Ed.

In the morning, finding that their master delayed his return so long, all the Duke’s servants suspected, rightly enough, that he had gone to see some lady; but at last, as he still failed to return, they began seeking him on all sides. The poor Duchess, who was beginning to love him dearly, was sorely distressed on learning that he could not be found; and as the gentleman to whom he bore so much affection was likewise nowhere to be seen, some went to his house in quest of him. They found blood on the threshold of the gentleman’s room, which they entered, but he was not there, nor could any servant or other person give any tidings of him. Following the blood-stains, however, the Duke’s servants came at last to the room in which their master lay. The door of it was locked, but this they soon broke open, and on seeing the floor covered with blood they drew back the bed-curtain, and found the unhappy Duke’s body lying in the bed, sleeping the sleep from which one cannot awaken.

You may imagine the mourning of these poor servants as they carried the body to the palace, whither came the Bishop, who told them how the gentleman had departed with all speed during the night under pretence of going to see his brother. And by this it was clearly shown that it was he who had committed the murder. And it was further proved that his poor sister had known nothing whatever of the matter. For her part, albeit she was astounded by what had happened, she could but love her brother the more, seeing that he had not shrunk from risking his life in order to save her from so cruel a tyrant. And so honourable and virtuous was the life that she continued leading, that although she was reduced to poverty by the confiscation of the family property, both she and her sister found as honourable and wealthy husbands as there were in all Italy, and lived ever afterwards in high and good repute.

“This, ladies, is a story that should make you dread that little god who delights in tormenting Prince and peasant, strong and weak, and so far blinds them that they lose all thought of God and conscience, and even of their own lives. And greatly should Princes and those in authority fear to offend such as are less than they; for there is no man but can wreak injury when it pleases God to take vengeance on a sinner, nor any man so great that he can do hurt to one who is in God’s care.”

This tale was commended by all in the company, (6) but it gave rise to different opinions among them, for whilst some maintained that the gentleman had done his duty in saving his own life and his sister’s honour, as well as in ridding his country of such a tyrant, others denied this, and said it was rank ingratitude to slay one who had bestowed on him such wealth and station. The ladies declared that the gentleman was a good brother and a worthy citizen; the men, on the contrary, that he was a treacherous and wicked servant.

6 In MS. No. 1520 (Bib. Nat.) this sentence begins: “The
tale was attentively listened to by all,” &c.--L.

And pleasant was it to hear the reasons which were brought forward on both sides; but the ladies, as is their wont, spoke as much from passion as from judgment, saying that the Duke was so well worthy of death that he who struck him down was a happy man indeed.

Then Dagoucin, seeing what a controversy he had set on foot, said to them--

“In God’s name, ladies, do not quarrel about a thing that is past and gone. Take care rather that your own charms do not occasion more cruel murders than the one which I have related.”

“‘La belle Dame sans Mercy,’” (7) replied Parlamente, “has taught us to say that but few die of so pleasing an ailment.”

7 _La belle Dame sans Merci_ (The Pitiless Beauty) is one
of Alain Chartier’s best known poems. It is written in the
form of a dialogue between a lady and her lover: the former
having obstinately refused to take compassion on the
sufferings of her admirer, the latter is said to have died
of despair. The lines alluded to by Margaret are spoken by
the lady, and are to the following effect--“So graceful a
malady seldom puts men to death; yet the sooner to obtain
comfort, it is fitting one should say that it did. Some
complain and worry greatly who have not really felt the most
bitter affliction; and if indeed Love doth cause such great
torment, surely it were better there should be but one
sufferer rather than two.” The poem, as here quoted, will be
found in André Duchesne’s edition of the _OEuvres de Maistre
Alain Chartier_, Paris, 1617, p. 502.--L.

“Would to God, madam,” answered Dagoucin, “that all the ladies in this company knew how false that saying is. I think they would then scarcely wish to be called pitiless, or to imitate that unbelieving beauty who suffered a worthy lover to die for lack of a gracious answer to his suit.”

“So,” said Parlamente, “you would have us risk honour and conscience to save the life of a man who says he loves us.”

“That is not my meaning,” replied Dagoucin, “for he who loves with a perfect love would be even more afraid of hurting his lady’s honour than would she herself. I therefore think that an honourable and graceful response, such as is called for by perfect and seemly love, must tend to the increase of honour and the satisfaction of conscience, for no true lover could seek the contrary.”

“That is always the end of your speeches,” said Ennasuite; “they begin with honour and end with the contrary. However, if all the gentlemen present will tell the truth of the matter, I am ready to believe them on their oaths.”

Hircan swore that for his own part he had never loved any woman but his own wife, and even with her had no desire to be guilty of any gross offence against God.

Simontault declared the same, and added that he had often wished all women were froward excepting his own wife.

“Truly,” said Geburon to him, “you deserve that your wife should be what you would have the others. For my own part, I can swear to you that I once loved a woman so dearly that I would rather have died than have led her to do anything that might have diminished my esteem for her. My love for her was so founded upon her virtues, that for no advantage that I might have had of her would I have seen them blemished.”

At this Saffredent burst out laughing.

“Geburon,” he said, “I thought that your wife’s affection and your own good sense would have guarded you from the danger of falling in love elsewhere, but I see that I was mistaken, for you still use the very phrases with which we are wont to beguile the most subtle of women, and to obtain a hearing from the most discreet. For who would close her ears against us when we begin our discourse by talking of honour and virtue? (8) But if we were to show them our hearts just as they are, there is many a man now welcome among the ladies whom they would reckon of but little account. But we hide the devil in our natures under the most angelic form we can devise, and in this disguise receive many favours before we are found out. And perhaps we lead the ladies’ hearts so far forward, that when they come upon vice while believing themselves on the high road to virtue, they have neither opportunity nor ability to draw back again.”

8 This sentence is borrowed from MS. No. 1520 (Bib. Nat.)--
L.

“Truly,” said Geburon, “I thought you a different man than your words would show you to be, and fancied that virtue was more pleasing to you than pleasure.”

“What!” said Saffredent. “Is there any virtue greater than that of loving in the way that God commands? It seems to me that it is much better to love one woman as a woman than to adore a number of women as though they were so many idols. For my part, I am firmly of opinion that use is better than abuse.”

The ladies, however, all sided with Geburon, and would not allow Saffredent to continue, whereupon he said--

“I am well content to say no more on this subject of love, for I have been so badly treated with regard to it that I will never return to it again.”