Woman on Her Death-Bed
(Day 8, Story 1)
THERE was at Amboise a saddler named Brimbaudier who worked for the Queen of Navarre. It was enough to see the man's red nose to be assured that he was more a servant to Bacchus than to Diana. He had married a worthy woman with whom he was very well satisfied and who managed his children and his household with great discretion.
One day he was told that his good wife was very ill, at which he was greatly afflicted. He went home with speed and found her so far gone that she had more need of a confessor than of a doctor, whereat he made the most doleful lamentations that ever were heard, but to report them properly one ought to speak thick like him, but it would be better still to paint one's face. After he had rendered her all the good offices he could, she asked for the cross, which was brought her.
The good man, seeing this, threw himself on a bed howling, and crying, and ejaculating with his thick tongue: "O Lord, I am losing my poor wife. Was there ever such a misfortune? What shall I do?" and so forth.
At last, there being no one in the room but a young servant, rather a good-looking girl, he called her to him in a faint voice and said, "I am dying, my dear, and worse than if I was dead all out, to see your mistress dying. I know not what to say or do, only that I look for help to you and beg you to take care of my house and my children. Take the keys that hang at my side; do everything in the house for the best, for I am not in a condition to attend to such things."
The poor girl pitied and tried to comfort him, begging him not to be so cast down, lest besides losing her mistress she should lose her good master also.
"It can't be, my dear," said he, "for I am dying. See how cold my face is; put your cheeks to mine to warm them." As she did so, he put his hand on her bosom, whereat she offered to make some difficulty, but he begged her not to be alarmed, for they must by all means see each other more closely.
Thereupon he laid hold of her and threw her on the bed. His wife, who was left alone with the cross and the holy water and who had not spoken for two days, began to cry out as well as her feeble voice enabled her, "Ah! Ah! Ah! I am not dead yet!" And threatening them with her hand, she repeated, "Wicked wretches, I am not dead yet!"
The husband and the servant jumped up instantly, but the sick woman was so enraged with them that her anger consumed the catarrhal humor that hindered her from speaking, so that she poured out upon them all the abuse she could think of. From that moment she began to mend, but her husband had often to endure her reproaches for the little love he had shown for her.
You see, ladies, how hypocritical men are, and how little is needed to console them for the loss of their wives.
"How do you know," said Hircan, "but he had heard it was the best remedy for his wife's case? Not being able to cure her by his care and his kind offices, he wished to try if the contrary would not produced the desired effect. The experiment was a happy one, and I am astonished that, being a woman as you are, you have so frankly portrayed the spirit of your sex, who do for spite what they cannot be brought to do by kindness."
"Unquestionably, such provocation as that," said Longarine, "would make me rise not only from my bed but from my grave."
"What harm did he do her in consoling himself, since he thought she was dead?" said Saffredent. "Do we not know that marriage binds only as long as life lasts, and that death gives a man back his liberty?"
"Death releases a man from the obligation of his oath," said Oisille; "but a good heart never thinks itself dispensed from the obligation of loving. It was making great haste to console himself not to be able to wait until his wife had expired."