The Triumphant Lady: OR, The CROWNED INNOCENCE.

A Choice and Authentick Piece of the Famous, DeCERIZIERS, Almoner to the King.

Translated into ENGLISH, out of the Original FRENCH, BY Sir WILLIAM LOWER KNIGHT.

London, Printed for GA. BEDELL, and THO. COLLINS, and are to be sold at their Shop at the Middle-Temple Gate in Fleet-street, 1656.

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To the READER.

Gentle Reader,

BEfore I touch upon the Lady, who is now to be the glorious Subject of my Discourse, give me leave, I pray you, to look back a little upon my Illustri­ous Innocence, Genivieva, whom I am obliged to vindicate. Me thinks I hear some ignorant Incredulous say, that she is a Romantick Lady, a Fa­bulous Divinity, and no Authentick Piece, as I have set her forth in my Prefaces to the world. To convince their Errour, to clear their under­standing, and to rectifie their judge­ment, I would have them know, that I drew it forth just so as it is to be seen with Puteanus, and Raderus in his Bavaria. Aubert Miréus having gi­ven in his Belgick Feasts many prai­ses [Page]to that holy Princess, assureth that her Life is written by Matthew Emi­chius of the Order of the Reverend Fathers Carmilites, or White Friers, and which is conserved yet to this day in the Charter house of Conflu­ence upon the Rhine. Now though I might say, that all that which I as­sured of that generous Woman is true, since it might arrive unto her indeed, and that the fair Apparitions which I described, were shewed to her spirit, yet I will content you, and discover with simplicity what is purely of her History. It is true, that Genevieva Princess of the House of Brabant, was married to a Palatine of Treues; it is true, that she swouned at the departure of her Sifroy; that she was fair, and tempted by Golo: it is true, that she gave him a box, and that he put her into Prison; that her husband commanded her death upon a suspition which this evil ser­vant gave him, through the Artifices of a woman, suspected of Magick. It [Page]is true, that two of his Domesticks upon the point of killing her, left her [...]; and that they met a little dog, which lost his tongue to conserve that of the Coun­tess. It is true, that a voice promised her the assistance of heaven, entring into the wood, and that a Hind nourished her child the space of seven years. It is true that the Palatine in Hunting, was con­ducted into his Wives Cave, and that he knew her. It is true, that he made her Slanderer to dye with the punish­ment which I observed, that that In­nocent Lady ended holily, after she re­ceived the Communion, that they built an Hermitage in the place of her Penitence, and that we have seen there in the following ages our Lady of Mer­sen. If I said that her Cr [...]o [...]fie spake to her, it is to be interpreted of that mute language, wherewith God speaks inwardly to his Favourites, or we should remember Peter the Martyr. When the Crosse followed her, that was meant spiritually, as it happens to all the afflict­ed, or really, as to the most Blessed Isa­bel [Page]d'Vuans. The Wolf which cloathed the little Benoni, could he not use the same gratitude with the Hyena of the great Macaires. It would be easie for me to find all the other circumstances of my Illustrious Innocence, if it were a­ny way necessary; but I think it is e­nough to make confess'd, that I gave no Fictions to those that took the pains to read it. In my opinion, this illu­stration sufficeth to undeceive those who think to be deceived. It only rests unto me to answer those Sages who wonder at this, that Genevieva remained so long unknown, and who demand if it were not easie for her to retire to her patents. Certainly, these Demands should be made to Genevieva rather then to me; notwithstading I think that one should not doubt of a History, as soon as one meets there some circum­stances difficult to receive. If God per­mitted that this Vertuous Princesse should be mistaken by her owne hus­band, is there any cause of Admiration that no body hath knowne her? Was [Page]there not more cause to wonder at this, that his Providence having given us his Son for three years, he hid him thirty years in a Country the most frequented of the earth, and in the most famous Town of the Universe? God hides himselfe in the midst of the Sun, why could he not hide a woman in an infinite Forrest, and in Dens which make wild Beasts afraid? His Providence labour­ed it self to turne aside those, whom ha­zard or designe would conduct unto that solitude, to trouble the devotions of our Saint. When God speaks in secret unto any one, he draws him aside: but as his Discourses are important, they are commonly long. And why should God have inspired the thought of Genevieva to retire her self toward her Parents, who might be dead or ill affectionated? Moreover, my Reader, Heaven would not revenge an Innocent, it pretended only to see a Saint to suffer. The Court of Princes, where there is nothing but delights, was not proper for this pur­pose. I care not to satisfie those that [Page]complain of the reason and resentments which I gave to the Animals and to the Trees, upon the miseries and the de­parture of Genevieva. This reproach comes (without doubt) but from those who know not the Liberty of the O­ratour; who may even in the judgment of the most severe Masters, make the plants and stones to speak.

So much for Genevieva. For Hirlan­da, whose Triumphant life I now treat of; I suppose I shall need no Apology, because none will deny her the Crown, but such as are stupid or malicious: yet I foresee that those who will have demonstrations of Mathematicks up­on the truth of History, will not fail to quarrel with her whom I serve, and that some people will take it for a tale made for pastime.

My Reader, before you take part with the Incredulous, or Easie, I pray you to remember; that you believe more strange ones upon the recital of Titus Livius, and Quintus Curtius, and that there are many such in our best [Page]Books. And then though this should be a symbolick History, should I not be pardoned this Liberty in this kind of Writings: since it is granted, that Saint John Damascene hath used them in the Life of his Josaphat. It would be ea­sie for me to imploy the example of the Queen Elvira, or of the Empress Ma­tilda, which I have touched in my fol­lowing Discourse, but besides that their adventures have circumstances as sus­pected as those which I propose, they are too common not to be known.

Receive then my Hirlanda, whom I have drawn by the cares of one of our Fathers worthy of credit, from a Ma­nuscript of the Town of Autun. Per­haps without his Diligence and Charity she might remain forever buried in ob­livion. We know, thanks be to God, what can be objected to this History; but we know wel also what ought to be answered thereunto. If I would wran­gle, I should find without trouble as much probability for me recital, as the Objectors pretend to give prop to their [Page]doubt. I force no body to receive my sentiments; if any one will be obstinate, let him permit me to be plain. In case that I deceive my self, my errour shall not be of those whereof Heresies are made; and likewise I dare to assure it lesse criminal then a presumptious knowledg; since that simplicity which hath no malice ought not to suffer any reproach. Remember notwithstanding, that though I say that Hirlanda was Dutchesse of Bretany, this ought to be understood according to the Alamans manner of speaking, who call all the Princes of a House, Duke or Marquess of the Province whereof it beares the name. For example, in their use, those of Saxony, of Bavaria, or of Branden­burg take the title thereof, though they possess not the demain. And surely it is not to divine in my own cause, since Dargentreius and other Authors of the History of Bretanie, speak often enough in this manner. You will judg wel that the ornaments which I give it, set it forth without altering it, and that by this con­duct [Page]I indeavour to instruct and to di­vert the spirit, without pretending to corrupt it.

Would to God that those pens which are held up to be delicate, would imploy themselves to collect in the same design the diverse accidents of History, without amusing them in making worlds fairer then that which God hath made. We should see that our youth would become learned in recreating themselves, and that those fatal sources which empoison so many souls, would be dry by the pro­per industry of those that have given them course. Whilst that these fair wits shall resolve themselves to render this good service to the Church, I conjure those that shall do me the honour to read this work, to read it with equity & with­out pre-occupation; perhaps they will find here no less divertisement & profit, then there is danger in those mysterious pieces. Let us not leave our selvs to be deceived by that ridiculous perswasion which the divel upholds with all his power, that fair expressions belong not [Page]but to the family of Theagines and Chari [...]lea. Why should the language of the Religious be as rude as their robe and their life? Make they profession of ill speaking, or rather, come they all from Arabia, or from some country more savage? Have we not seen some of them who were clothed with the fair­est pomp of the world, to seek under this vertuous disguisement the souls: which run to their ruine? What wil they? that Love; who is but a child, should render men eloquent; and that Zeal, which is a Seraphin, should not hinder them to be mute? Let us grant notwithstanding, that there is as little ill instruction in the works of those Messieurs, as choice words in ours; who should dare to main­tain, that there is merit to read them? But if we derive no advantage from this reading, and that all the sages assure that it is not without suspition of crime, who will be so prodigal of his time, as to a­bandon himself to this dangerous idle­ness? All posterity mocketh that Bishop, who would rather lose his Miter, then [Page]disavow a fable. Permit me to tel you, my reader, that one would make a much worse judgment of your obstination, if not to quit for a testoon of paper, you should imprudently hazard Paradise. But one learns the world and civility from Romance; grant that it be so: who will resolve himself to lose inno­cence, or at least to hazard it upon the expectation of so small a gain? I assure not that, which notwithstanding is but too true, that the reading of these pieces is much more fatal to good manners, then that of those other works which openly make profession to instruct men in debauchery. Every one can com­prehend it by this sole reflection, that we have horrour of a declared enemy, and use precaution against the danger which is known unto us. On the con­trary, there is no person that helps not to deceive himself, when the occasion of failing seems to favour the inclination which it intends to corrupt. To speak truth, I know not who will give his approbation to Romances, after the glo­rious [Page] Francis de Sales hath strucken them with Anathema. I will not make use of the answer which he made to a Lady who consulted him upon that kind of writings: it sufficeth me to let you know, that this great Prelate named them the Prentiship of a trade which is infamous enough. Would it pleased God, for the little love which I have, for me, and the perfect hate which I bear to those agreeable corrupters of innocence, that their work and mine were reduced into ashes to choak that blood-sucker. But since that all my tears, and those of good people deface not one of their lines, I will never cease to continue the endeavour which I use to procure their ruine: perhaps though my weakness gives subject unto some to laugh, it will inspire courage and will in others to succour me.

DISCOURSE. That it is a greater and more noble Effect of Courage to suffer then to revenge Ca­lumny.

FORCE, a Principal and most neces­sary Vertue of man hath two Effects, Sufferance and Action: and to ex­press me more neatly; Force acteth with Courage, and sustaineth with Patience. By its first Office it should moderate that generous impetuosity, which solicites us continually unto great Enterprises; and by the second, it represseth the fears which the distrust of our power imprinteth in us at the encounter of the difficult. Ari­stotle, the clearest of all those who have known Nature, assureth in the third Book of his Morals, that the Force which sustaines meriteth much more praise, then that which assaulteth: Behold his reasons, There is this dif­ference between him that acteth, and him that suffereth, that the first is the master of his Action, and therefore as the beginning of his endeavour is in his liberty, his progresse depends of his constancy. If he knows him­self weak, he ceaseth; nothing obligeth him to carry on his assault but the hope of the Victory which he hath be­gun. On the contrary, the second is constrained in the sufferance, for as much as the relief of his evil springs from the sole defect of power in those that labour him. Now who sees not that it is more difficult to remain long immoveable in the Conflict of grief (that which Patience ought to do) then to be moved with resolution for some moments to the designe of great things, which proceedeth from courage? from whence I conclude, [Page]since it is more eafie to have vigour for some minutes, then for months and yeers it is lesse in our power to be patient then couragious. Moreover, he that suffers, hath all his evil present, and he that assaults sees his only to come: yea the evil of the Patient, is a grief real which torments him, and that of the Couragious is oftentimes but an imagination which threatens him. I think no body doubts that the present grief is not more incom­modious, then that which we look upon in the future. Nature is moved in the apprehension of the evil which shewes it self, but she despaires in the combat of that which afflicts her; nothing comforts her in the actual convulsions of her pain, and a thousand precautions promise her succour, when her misery is distant. That great Philosopher of whom I borrow these Reasons, pro­duceth a third better then the others. Never doth the Courage resolve it self to the pursuit of an enemy, but it promiseth it self the Victory: On the contrary, Pa­tience scarce sees her self assailed, but she apprchends to be overcome. It is not a discretion that we should ex­pect from an Adversary to accommodate himself to our forces, in such manner as be would dispute with us the advantage with honour. As his design is to vanquish, his wisdom is to measure himself before the Combat; if he sees himself not able, he careth not to hazard himself; but if he thinks that he hath more strength then his enemy hath resistance then he contracts himself, drawing new forces from the weaknesse of another. Saint Thomas upholds the sentiments of Aristorle with this solid Discourse. One cannot doubt that the perfect suppression of fear is not more hard to find, then the just temperament of choler which are the two effects of Force; then there is more mer [...]t in sufferance then in action. For as much as danger which is the proper ob­ject of choler and fear, concurs of it self, and by its na­tural condition to moderate audaci [...]y and on the contra­ry it aideth timility. And therefore the repression of [Page]fear is lesse easie then the moderation of the motion, which is opposed to it: for besides th [...]t our inclination is for Choler, which accompanies courage; patience is alwayes followed of fear, which is, the strong est to be the weakest of our affections. Now it is certain, that it belongeth to Force to assault, for as much as it rules audacitie, and sustaines in correcting fear. It is lesse then, to do, then to suffer. So the Holy Ghost praising the Beauties of his Spouse, speaks not of her armed hand, but of her neck adorned with a thousand Buck­lers, because we have a thousand evils from which we should defend our selves. From all this Dispute I ga­ther, That there is much more Courage to suffer Ca­lumny, then to revenge it, since Revenge acteth, and Patience sustaineth. Though this truth remaines strongly enough established upon these Reasons, I think it fit to add some others, which are proper to the subject which I treat of. It is not a little glory to triumph of an enemy, whose [...]ate is no lesse unjust then damagea­ble; for as much as he who is the Conqueror of ano­ther, seemes to become the Master. So that the same Motive which thrusts us on to superiority, solicites us to revenge. But we ought to observe, that man having more aversion from Infamy then love for esteem, it is more glorious to represse the sentiments of injury, then to satisfie the appetite of glory. The secret principle of this inclination is found in that reasonable interest, which per swades us, that the entire ruine of our being excites more our fears and flights, then its perfecti­on merits our desires and searcher. So is it certaine, (what greedinesse soever we have for reputation) that we never hazard its pursuit in the occasions of disho­nour. A great Courage gives it self up unto the dan­gers of losing life, because he sees his recompence in the esteem; but he with-holds himself from the Encounter of reproach, because he feareth the Infamy. Therefore it is no wonder if I say, that it is more to suffer detraction [Page]which indeavours to sully us, then to revenge it, fince the peaceable acquiesment hath this ill witnesse, that we love ignominy, and the effort which we make to reject it discovereth our impatience. And really, to consider the forces which we imploy in the one and the other, we shall find that reason alone aids us to suffer Calumny, and that a great number of passions thrust us on to re­venge it. We have alwayes esteemed a Victory by the little assistance of the Conqueror, and by the advanta­ges of the Conquered. Who can then deny, that a man who combats with Reason alone against a great crowd of enemies, meriteth no more Elogies, then he who is sucoured of all sides? All the difficulty that there is to suffer comes not from the infirmity of the person that suffers, it comes also from the power of the causes, which produce the sufferance. Add unto that, that very of­ten there is no hope to acquire glory; and that one hath alwayes cause to require the satisfaction thereof by Justice. But if the difficulty of a work augments the glory and price thereof, it is not hard to conclude of that which I have said, that the Couragious who repulseth the outrage, meriteth lesse Praise and Recompence, then the patient that endures it. So must it be con­fessed, that the last proof of Christian generosity is in the pardon of the Offence, since it is more easie to give our goods then our resentments▪ We may permit without crying, that force take our Wealth from us, for they are not tyed to our flesh; but we cannot suffer without patience, that one should ravish Glory from us, because it is glued to our spirit. Much more it seems easie to witnesse Constancy, when one cuts off a member from us, which hath no annection but with a part of our body, then to use resignation when one loseth ho­nour, which relateth to the whole soul. This Discourse makes it sufficiently to be comprehended, that Patience i [...] [...] mystery of Christianity, and that at lesse then the in­struction of a God, we could not have known a Vertue, [Page]which makes us enemies of our selvs. But if the gene­rosity which we practise in suffering, meriteth glory, what praise should we not give to the courage of those who lose without displeasure what all men seek with so much zeal? It belongs not but unto Jesus Christ, and unto those that are neer his Crosse, to bear peaceably the outrages which it is just and glorious to repulse. No­thing can resolve us thereunto, but the example and grace of a God, since Nature is repugnant unto it, and reason forbids not to pursue the punishment thereof.

But to put this truth into a light which may be seen and sensible to all the world, I think it fit to joyn Histo­ry to reason. That which I will produce, carries an illu­strious proof of the courage which revengeth the calum­ny, and of the patience that suffers it. Since all the evil comes from the side where the North wind bloweth (to speak in the terms of the Holy Ghost) it is not incon­venient to draw from thence some famous example of slander. Henry the fourth, Emperour of Germany, having resolved to chuse a Princess that might partake with him the delights of his Empire, he fixed his thought upon one of the daughters of Henry the second King of England. Though he had never seen Matilda, her portrait gave him love; so must he confess that the pencil never did better in the expression of all the parts, which make up a perfect visage. But what! if the copy of an excellent beauty could kindle so many inno­cent fires; is there not cause to fear that its Original made fatal combustions? Love is a flame of another nature then that of the lightning, which fixeth but on the oaks and firre; she spareth not the meanest fortunes, because very often their ambition as wel as their design is to burn; contrary to those humble plants that hide themselves in the fire of heaven, for fear to be percei­ved of it. Behold the misfortune that happened, (as the History relates it) to a Gentleman of the Emperours house. This rash person having beheld his Mistress [Page]with too much curiousity, had so little discretion as to speak of Love to a Queen, who pessessed as much ver­tue as she had beauty. The refusal which he received, gave him with the shame of his demand, a lively appre­hension of the punishment which his presumption meri­ted. To divert the storm thereof, he judged that he must gain the spirit of Henry, and prevent his judg­ment upon the complaint which he believed Matilda would make unto him of his impudence: In this design he spake to the Emperour, and told him with much candour, that his wife ceased not to solicite him to a disloyalty, the sole thought whereof, he supposed would be culpable. In a word, that the Princess would have him for her friend. Wee have s [...]en but very few So­veraigns that take pleasure to divide their Crown; but we see yet fewer husbands that suffer the participation of their bed. The woman is a Kingdom of the man; (as St. Chrysostome assures it) if this Monarchy degenerates into a Republick, the Monarch falls into fury: perhaps Henry would have dissembled if any one of his Provinces had given it self to a tyrant, but his indignation witnessed well that be could not suffer that his wife should offer her self to one of his servants. The suspition that he received of her upon the report of a slan­derer, caused that he cast Matilda into prison, swearing by his Scepter and his Life, that the blood of that unfor­tunate Princess should wash off that spot, if no body pre­sented himself for the proof of her innocence. Behold then that poor Queen in a strait prison, where the horror of death could not make her to pronounce one word of de­spair or of murmur: she adored the Providence that permitted her oppression; but if she spake or deplored, it was but to witness the joy of her sufferance. That shee might not betray her vertue, she was contented to pro­test once of her innocence, and to say, that never ci­ther her body or her heart were divided. They say, that jealoufie is an excess of love, and that a husband [Page]would never fear to lose the affection of his wife, if he esteem'd her not much, and judged her not worthy to be sought. Let every one believe hereof what be will, for my part. I maintain that this distrustful passion takes more from hatred, then from love, since it looks but upon the ruine of its object in stead of procuring the advantages of it. Never will any one think that Henry loved Matilda with excess, if he considers that he persecuted her without pity; all things were disposed for the punishment of this deplorable Princess, and they began already to dress her a wood pile, according to the custom then▪ which was that an adulterous woman should expire in the flames: the lamentable spectacle of this sad preparation could not change the countenance of the Princess; to see her constancy, one would judg that it was a Comedy, in which every one acted well his part, except she who was the subject thereof. As they expected the day which was to shut the lifts to the Cham­pions of the Empress; there arrived a Hermit at the Court who was permitted entrance into the prison from whence Matilda beheld death to come. This Religious man, after he had heard the general confession of the poor Queen, and known her perfect innocence, departed out of the prison to appear the next day in the lists, with resolution to defend a vertue which he saw unjustly oppressed. I will not extend the ceremonies of this combat, it is sufficient to say, that heaven ayded for this bout the good intention of a simple in behalf of an inno­cent. The Calumniator was constrained to confess the vertue of Matilda, and afterward to die upon an infa­mous Gibbet▪ I know that this History hath nothing good but its end▪ and that there is nothing but the cleer­ness of the former ages that can justifie it. That Cavalier which presented himself for Champion to the Princess, was quite otherwise then he seem'd to be; the habit of a Religious man under which he appeared, served as a vail to his design, and not as vestment to his profession: [Page]and not to disguise a disguisement, it was a French Prince, who touch'd with the misery of Matilda, had quitted his Court to come to defend Innocence, after he had known by the artifice which he used, the truth or falshood of her accusation. As he had finished an enter­prise which would be glorious in all its circumstances, if it had not imployed that unlawful means, he retired him­self, remaining unknown, as before. If the History assured us not that it was the last of the Berangers, Count of Barcelona and Provence, whom it names different from the others, Remond Teste d'estoupe, we should not know yet his name and quality. Those who have thought that the merit of that protection acquired him Provence, have not well read the Records, which import expresly, that this Soveraignty came unto him by his marriage with Douce the one of its heir esse. All this supposed, as the History represents it, I leave now to judg if Matilda meriteth not more praises for having suffered without murmur, then Remond for having vanquished with good fortune. It is a spectacle which hath the eyes of men for witnesses and admirers, to see a Prince in hazard of his life without other interest then of justice: but an Empress in infamy, and without impatience, it is in my judgment a miracle, which may arrest both the Angels and God himself. The arms of Remond have asplendor that shal never perish, and the tears of Matilda a sweetnesse which triumphs eternally. I admire the courage of the Cavalier, but I am ravished with the patience of that happy unfortu­nate.

The Triumphant Lady: OR, The Crowned Innocence.

TEares have (I know) not sweetnesse, which makes us to love them; and though them may be the marks of grief in those that shed them, they are motives of joy to those that consider them. The sole sight of one in misery gives the experience of this truth: But if any one remain insensible by an afflicted person, we ought to believe either that he is not a man, or rather that he is blind. The greatest and fairest Monster that Af­frick ever nourished, confesseth that the [Page 2]agreeable Lyes of Virgil, deceived him with so much cunning, that he took plea­sure to deplore with Dido, whose feigned griefs produced true regrets in his soul. But if it be true that all sorts of Wretches draw us to the compassion of their suffer­ings, and that we resent a kind of pleasure to sigh with them; it is much surer, when the subject of the affliction seems unto us to merit a good or lesse rigorous fortune. That fair Offenderesse, who sold so ma­ny repentances unto Greece, no sooner ap­peared in the midst of the Areopage, but he was changed; and those that should courageously bend their spirits unto Equi­ty, mollified themselves effeminately unto love. I know that pity alone made not this strange change, and that it was assist­ed with a Vice, wherewith an old man should never be suspected, much lesse sei­sed. Besides I am not ignorant that that afflicted Beauty gained her Judges, rather by her tears and by the compassion of her mifery, then by the lustre of her Graces, which could not but be extinct or obscu­red by the lively apprehension of a death as shameful as her life. Philosophy is much troubled to observe the secret causes of that flux and reflux of our eyes. For [Page 3]to say that we take of the nature of that charitable Bird, which cannot behold a sick person without becoming so her self, nor be in health by a face infected with the Jaundice, is to expresse by an example what we comprehend not by reason: and though we should be satisfied with this consideration, and that our spirit would yeild it self to that sentiment, we should not know neverthelesse the reason of that joy which tickles us in deploring. I con­fesse, that compassion charging us with the miseries of another it obl [...]geth us to teares, and therefore it is impossible, that we should not cherish a Remedy which comforts us in part; or heales us wholly. But what! Cannot one love sorrow with­out rejoycing at it? Perhaps that suffer­ing being ordinary, and as it were natural unto us, we receive pleasure to fool the attaint thereof from whatsoever place it comes; this familiarity is not so agreeable, that it may not be troublesome: Is it not that the misfortune of our neighbour plea­seth us? certainly it could not cause in us at once contentment and pity. If we should love the hurt of a miserable person, me thinks we should not deplore him: if we should deplore him, who will believe that [Page 4]we should love him? My Reader, I leave this curious search to give you the subject thereof in your proper sentiment: I fear not to put you off, since the tears which I promise you are sweet, and since I am assured that what shall attrist you, can and ought, infallibly to rejoice you.

Poor Hirlanda, how the sad sight of your disgraces touches my heart to the quick! And how much more willingly would I give tears to your misfortunes, then ornament to your History! It is true, that I cannot relate your Adventures without lamenting them; and therefore if I oblige me to describe them, I oblige me to deplore. That which comforts me, is, that if you languish through necessity, I sigh with compassion; and that if the malice of another makes you to suffer, your sole vertue causeth me bitternesse; much more when I consider the first source of your tears, and see an eternal providence which travels in the accidents of your life; I draw pleasure from your sorrow, be­cause you draw your happinesse from thence. Grant then, if you please, that I discover to posterity an example, which the injustice of the times would ravish from it: Perhaps you will not revive un­profitably, [Page 5]and will borrow some Splen­dour from the Obscurity which [...]ndeavou­red to bury you. I fear not that the re­membrance of that which afflicted you formerly, troubleth you; since you know perfectly, that it is the very same which crownes you now. Your felicity is too pure to mingle it self, and your fortune too constant to be shaken. I dare like­wise to promise me, that my pen can pro­duce you new sentiments of joy, provided that it represents unto you naturally your ancient miseries. For the motive which I give you thereof, refuse me not the assist­ance which is necessary for me to give it you: I can do nothing without your help, as I will enterprise nothing without your consent.

But I perceive (my Reader) that this Discourse troubles you, and if I deceive not my self, you would desire to know alrea­dy the end of a History, whereof I have not yet touched the beginning. Well then since you will deplore, I consent thereto. I care not to defend you from the tears which are innocent, and which I likewise esteem reasonable. Look upon the skirt of this Wood, which the Winter hath deprived of all its beauties: approach that Rock [Page 6]which thrusts forth grosse bubbles of wa­ter, and you shall [...]nd there the sad sub­ject of your plaints and tears. Believe not neverthelesse that this universal death which appeares to your eyes in the wither­ed grasse, and upon the naked trees, me­rits the resentments of a heart, which is provoked with the glory not to be inhu­mane. That poor woman whom you see following a Flock, which was sent forth from the Grange, rather to recreate then to feed, should furnish you a lamen­table Object of Piety. Her head leaning upon her right arme sustained with her knee, her look immoveable, and almost dead, her whole countenance and her ex­teriour tell you sufficiently that she hath very little courage, or much misfortune, Ask her not her condition, grief hinders her to speak; believe not that her Equipage tels it you; these tottered Garments that defend her from the cold, make not that she is not a Princess: Without discover­ing the disgraces which have obliged her to serve, I think that it is enough to tel you that she is miserable, to constrain you to weep. Notwithstanding I will advertise you that she is a Saint, for fear that the excess of her misfortunes should make you [Page 7]to believe her a Criminal. Perhaps if she had had lesse innocence, she should have had more good fortune: but without di­vining, it is certain, that her High Birth is the sole cause of her great fall. Yes, De­plorable Princess, I doubt not at all but your Fortune would have been better, if your extraction had not been illustrious: But too, who could assure that your Ver­tue would have been Heroick, if your Blood had been Rustick? He who dispo­sed the accidents of your life, ought not to regulate his conduct upon the sentment of those that cannot conceive it. For my part, I love better to adore his Providences with submission, then to seek the Secret thereof with danger: in the one I may fear of the temerity, and in the other I should hope of the merit.

Hirlanda Dutchess of Bretany, became conceived with child of a Son, whose Birth caused much more griefe to his Parents, then it promised them solid joyes: She was not five Months gone, but her Hus­band was constrained to quit her, to the end to follow the King in a War, unto which, Honour as well as his Duty called him. There are none but those who are [Page 8]yet in the first tendernesses of a chaste and innocent marriage, that can comprehend the rigors of a separation that comes to trouble them. When the hearts are mar­ried as well as the bodies, there is no death whose convulsions would be more unpiti­ful, then those of a grievous departure: Death in taking from us life and sight, takes from us the sentiment of all that which we love; but a departure or ab­sence leaves us eyes only to represent unto us the things which can displease us. Ar­tus (so will I name an unknown, since that name is ordinary in the house of Bretany) being upon the point to depart, employed all the reasons which could consolate his Spouse.

‘Madam (said he unto her) I am not ignorant that you know me too well to believe that any thing of the world se­parates me from you, but the sole ne­cessity to obey my Soveraign. Since the time that heaven conjoyned us, it hath made me to discover so many vertues in your soul, that I observe no more perfe­ctions in your body: and really I may say unto you, that both the one and the other tye me so strongly unto you, that if disobedience could be honourable, [Page 9]your consideration would perswade me that it should be just. That which aids me to overcome my repugnance, is that I know you would esteem me unworthy of you; if I should loose an occasion, wherein I may acquire glory in witnes­sing my fidelity: by the contempt which I make of dangers, you will compre­hend the account which you ought to make of my Love; since I protest unto you, that I forget the care to conserve my life, but will never lose the remem­brance of my dear Hirlanda.’

Though the Prince was generous e­nough, his tears and silence witnessed a little weaknesse, when he perceived that his wife began to grow tender, and that con­tinuing to speak unto her, he continued to afflict her. It is better to break off briskly then to unwind ones self leisureably in the occasions wherein we fear to shew forth lesse courage then affection. Artus made use of this counsel: for feigning that his Journey was not pressing, he went a­way the next morning at the break of day, leaving a Gentleman to bring him the plaints and regrets of the Dutchesse. But surely it was impossible for him to be faithful in his report; because to ex­presse [Page 10]her tears well, he ought to have her love. One of the principal recom­mendations which the Prince left with his wives Domesticks; was to have a great care of the Burthen she went with, and speedily to advertise him of the successe of her Child-bed, in case that he should be absent at that time.

Whilst the Duke advanced towards Paris, and the Princesse continued her re­grets, I think it is not amisse to withdraw us both from the one and the other, so should we not contribute any thing to the Voyage of Artus, nor to the consolation of Hirlanda.

To conceive the strange accident which was to arrive in Bretany, it is fit to passe in­to England. It is in that sland, which anciently bare the name of Albion, and changed it as often as the War made her to change Masters, that the tempest is for­med which I fear. The Duke had a bro­ther at London, who was bred up at the King of Englands Court: Were it that his inclination had made him a stranger, or that interest had suggested unto him to seek support against his blood. Whatso­ever it was, Gerard was absent (that was his name) when the Prince was con­strained [Page 11]to enterprize a long voyage. Be­hold the subject which made him to visit his Country again.

I know not how it happeneth, that the most puissant Monarchs of the world can­not defend themselves from the common weaknesses of nature; their Scarlet exempts them not from the Purples, nor their Guards assure them against the other ma­ladies. But if we see with admiration that they are smitten with a disease, which for having the boldnesse to attach Kings, takes insolently the name of Royal, there is no cause to wonder, when the infirmities of the basest popularity persecutes them. It is a spectacle worthy of pity, to see a Prince gnawn with vermine, and to under­stand from History, that he who spake like a God, was eaten up of Lice, as the most miserable of his slaves. Henod is not the only example which we have of these dis­asters; even those who have merited fa­vours from heaven, have not been dispen­sed from these miseries of the earth. Con­stantine, for whom the eternal Providence prepared so many Miracles and Victories, was he not seen halfe corrupted with the Leprosie? All those that studied his health, could not cure him, nor preserve [Page 12]him from that filthy and shameful infecti­on. There was no remedy which was not used, but there was not any which was not unprofitable. He that healed Naaman in Jordan, reserved unto him­self that Cure. Learne, ye Powers of the earth, learne, that God can humble Prin­ces, and that if you have the temerity to displease him, he hath the power to de­stroy you: There needeth but the least of his winds (as said the holiest of our Monarchs) to sink the King of France; at a lesse rate then that, he can bring you to reason; one spark of his fire can burne you, and one drop of his waters drowne you: if he will, the Feaver dryes you up; if he will, the Dropsie splits you; and yet though your life be subject to these feeble accidents, that proud Pomp which disgui­seth but the outside, makes you to pre­sume much of your Greatnesse. You inso­lently think that you are not beneath your Creatour, because you are a little above the other Creatures: the hurt that you may do unto them, perswades you that you ought not to fear any thing from his arme, and that yours hath nothing which can stop it; as if there were a great glory to be able to do unto others, what [Page 13]they may suffer from them. Know then once again, that you have a Master who brings down the proudest heads by the sole will of destroying them, nothing be­ing able to restrain his hand, nor to change his counsel.

At the same time that the brother of Artus was in England, he who was the Soveraign of that Land, was touched with so obstinate a Leprosie, that the disease seemed to derive succour and force from the remedies which were imployed to van­quish it. That poor Prince seeing that all the industry of his Physicians advanced as little his Cure as his Hopes, he caused a Jew to be called, whose knowledg was ve­ry much in reputation in all his Kingdom. As he exposed unto him his Disease, and implored his aid, this Miscreant, who would not employ malice, if it had not all the blacknesse whereof it could be ca­pable, demanded some dayes to study his infirmity. A while after, this Jew retur­ned to the Palace loaden with a great num­ber of Remedies; which the King used; whilst the quacking of his Esculapius could deceive his confidence. But whe­ther this Leprosie was of another nature then that of the Jewes, who are more sub­ject [Page 14]to that malady, then any Nation of the earth, or that in truth this Physician was but a Mountebank; he vexed himself to swallow so many loathsome Potions, and to see himself lanced every day, as was almost insufferable.

The Jew, who perceived it, making use of this device, but to maintaine his For­tune, took occasion to represent to his Patient, that his Infirmity being super­natural, his Majesty should not wonder if the Medicine indeavoured unprofitably to succour him; that for his part he had a conceit that there was Witchcraft in his indisposition: notwithstanding, that hee should not despair of his health, provided that his impatience made him not to di­strust his skills: He added, that that great God who had given him so much power upon Nature, had not denyed him to do something against Magick: But if he would be courageous to take a Remedy which he would prescribe him, he should have no lesse docility to believe without examination the infallible vertue thereof. The King who feared not to drink poison, provided he might have hopes to be cured, interrupted a Discourse which troubled him almost as much as his Disease.

My good friend (said he unto him) I pray thee comfort my body, and amuse thee not to perswade my spirit; I am rea­dy to do whatsoever thou wilt; command only, and thou shalt be obeyed. I put no bounds to my submission, whilst I may see some assurance in thy promises.

Is it fatal unto Princes who are infected with Leprosie, to meet alwayes with Phy­sicians that oblige them to be cruel for to be sound, and to lose humanity to acquire a little good health? He who treated with our Patient, failed not to represent unto him, That the first Emperour of the Christians (whatsoever the History sayes of it) was cured of a Disease like unto his, by such a Remedy as he prepared. And not to entertain you unprofitably with vain words, Know, Sir, that you shall be cu­red, if you can resolve to wash your selfe with the blood of a little child. There is nothing more easie (interrupted the King.) Then can I protest unto you (replyed the Jew) that there is nothing in the world, more powerful against that corruption which ruines you. This malady having its first source in the masse of the blood, we must indeavour to put it againe into its proper and natural constitution: No­thing [Page 16]can more contribute thereunto then a pure blood, and mingled with all kinds of qualities enemies, for as much as our great Master teacheth us, that one contra­ry is cured by another. But because this Remedy is exteriour, and the Disease pos­sesseth the interiour of the body, we must assist it in taking something that may en­counter it even in its retreat. The King pined with impatience to hear so many words, and to see so little effect; I con­jure thee, my friend (said he) finish spee­dily, or I dye. To that which I have said (answered the Jew) you must adde the heart of the fame Infant, eating it ve­ry warm, and if it can be, yet panting. The Prince, who thought not to find a mis­chievous Remedy, provided that it was possible, resented some horrour, when he heard, that to recover his health, he must become Antropophage. But surely his spirit entred into very great perplexities, when he understood that that Infant, ne­cessary for his Cure, was to be of high Birth; and much more, when he was told, that the Waters of Baptisme would [...] away from his blood, the vertue which the Jew assured to be natural against the Le­prosie. What resolution should a poore [Page 17]sick person take, who is deceived with the good opinion of his Physician, and trans­ported with the desire of his health? Whatever repugnance ours resented, he resolved to omit nothing that might re­store him, perswading himself that the life of a Monarch more imported the good of the State, then that of all the young Lords that were in his Iland, Is there any thing that is unjust (said he) when it is necessa­ry? So is it that the Theology of the great ones concludes when they love better the interest of their fortune, then the sancti­ty of their conscience.

But alas! Where is that innocent Vi­ctime, which is to dye? Perhaps it is not born, yet, although they kill it already: Perhaps it playes in the bosom, of its mo­ther, and tasteth the sweetnesse thereof, whilst crueltie meditates to make it drink the last gall of Nature.

Whosoever thou art little Innocent, thy misfortune toucheth my heart; and I cannot behold thy blood without shedding my teares. Finish not thy Birth, if thou art not in the world, or haste to dye, if thou art in the armes of the Nurse. On how much better were it for thee to pe­rish then to appear: Death will be more [Page 18]favourable unto thee, the lesse life it leaves thee.

And you, poor mother, Was it well done of Nature not to give you some fore­sight of your griefs? I conjure you, de­sire not to see that dear child, which is formed in your womb: It will be the sweet and the sorrowful subject of your afflictions: it will be the innocent Perse­cutour of your heart, and the deplora­ble cause of your Martyrdome; but I am to blame to trouble the contentments that ravish you. Poor Mother, I am to blame to draw you from that sweetnesse, which glues you to that Infant. Haste you to taste all the pleasures that you can. Kiss those little eyes, presse those cheeks a­gainst yours, hide all that amiable babe in your heart, if you can. Perceive you not that it witnesseth by its tremblings and quiverings, that it fears, or that it loves? See you not how it presseth upon your bo­some, how it laboureth to enter once a­gain there? Desolate mother, Look up­on those little eyes; do they not tell you that that poor Innocent is going to dye? and that mouth which cannot speak yet, ex­presseth it not by its silence; the adieu which it gives you, and the cruelty which it expecteth?

Without doubt you are curious to know the newes of our Duke, and of our Dutchesse.

Before you may understand it from me, my Reader, I pray you to observe in the brutish Discourse of our Jew, the true features of Superstition. Why must there be an Infant of an illustrious house? Why must not this little Prince be baptized? Perhaps that Nobility is a Simple against the Leprosie? Perhaps that a water which hath received the Benedi­ction of heaven, takes from the blood its natural vertue? No, believe it not, the Divel who presides at this Cure, pretends to kill a soul, and not to heal a body. All these conditions serve but to envelope his designe, and to give colour to his ma­lice.

Let us return to our subject.

Hirlanda prepares her self to lye in, all her Court made Devotions and Prayers for her happy deliverance; there was no person that desired not a little Master, no body that begged it not of God. Whilst that all things were between hope and fear in Bretany, Artus who was already come to the Army, suffered cruel tortures in his soul; continually the Image of his dear [Page 20]Spouse came to seek him, and to bring him new affrights from her: now he flat­tered himself with the hope of a quick re­turne, and annon he afflicted himself with an apprehension that he should never see her more.

I will not conceal from you an ac­cident which caused him much trou­ble. One day as he was in an ill humour more then ordinary, he of his Domesticks that opproached him with most confidence, having surprized him in this condition, con­jured him to discover unto him what cau­sed his grief. The Prince, who used not to hide his heart from this Favourite, con­fessed unto him, that the precedent night he had had a dream, which held him in great inquietudes. I was not throughly a­sleep (said he unto him) but it seemed un­to me, that I saw my poor Hirlanda stretched out dead upon her bed, and a cruel Vulture seized upon her belly, and tore out her bowels. No body appear­ed to succour her; for though at times a very feeble motion, and some languish­ing sighs made me believe that she lived, there was about her but two Harpies, which with their tallons and sight assisted that dreadful Bird, whose horrible figure [Page 21]presenteth it selfe continually to my me­mory. Behold the subject of my sor­row, and that which afflicteth me sen­sibly.

As he continued his Discourse, the Al­moner, who was a man very capable, pre­sented himself in his chamber, from whence he endeavoured to retire, when he percei­ved them in private conference. But Ar­tus, who was touched with the curiosity to be instructed, and with the desire to di­vert himself, commanded him to enter, and then having related unto him his Visi­on, he conjured him to tell him what he thought of it. The Almoner, who had no lesse modesty then capacity, for­gate not to excuse himself, beseeching his Excellence to believe, that as he had al­wayes despised Artemidorus, he never im­ployed either his time or paines to study him; notwithstanding he said, that he would willingly adventure to tell him what Theology permitteth to believe thereof, which he thought not unnecessa­ry, since oftentimes we attribute too much or too little unto Dreames. Behold his Discourse.

My Lord, Since it pleaseth your Excel­lence to hear what I have sometime learned [Page 22]upon this Subject, I most humbly beseech you to believe, That only my incapacity will obstruct your full satisfaction; and that if I were more knowing, you should be more enlightned: And not to divert me from your intention, I think it cannot be said, that Dreames which are the mo­tions of the soul, that formes it self di­verse figures, or receives them, should be all false illusions or infallible truths▪ What­soever respect the profane have had for the vaine Science which is made of it, the wisest sort of people mock equally the Su­perstitious, and the Incredulous, Ari­stotle, whose humour is not to believe with­out good caution, could not approve the opinion of his Master, who would that all the Dreames of the night came from the Gods, and therefore that they should be Celestial and Supernatural instructions for men: And to speak truth (as he obser­veth) the Dogs and other Beasts dream­ing as well as we, there is little likeli­hood, that such high Majesties would a­base themselves to instruct Brute [...] ▪ Phi­lon, who alwayes professed himself a great partaker of the Platonicks, makes dreams to be born in the soul from the sympathy of its motions to the course of the Uni­verse. [Page 23] Syneses acknowledgeth a certaine spirit, which I know not, that serves them for seat and carriage, in the same manner as the naturallists conduct vigour and life into all the parts of man: Others make them to slide from the stars, and some dare boldly to assure that the fan­cies of our spirit, are but the remem­brances of the knowledges, which it brings from without into our bo­dy.

It cannot be denied but Hypocrates hath better found out the source and prin­ciple of them, when for the most part hee attributes them unto Nature, and sometimes to its Author: he had said all, if he had added, that the divels atingle themselves very often in our sleep; it is true, that having not distinguished the evil genius from the good, we should confound these two divers causes. That there comes unto us dreames from nature, the experience of all the nights teacheth [...] that God sends them often enough, the holy Scripture instructeth [...] in it. Who would be so rash as to contest, that those of Abraham, of Isaak, of Jacob, and of Joseph (without speaking of that other Joseph of the new Testament) [Page 24]should not be the advertisements of hea­ven to these illustrious Patriarks? I enter­prize not to verifie▪ that the divels make men to dreame; and that sometimes, to give them some beliefe of their Divinity, they give them presentments of their good or evil fortunes. There is not any one that knowes never so little the pro­fane history, who is ignorant of that which is related of Podalirus in the Poüille of Naples, of that of Serapis in Alexandria, and of Esculapius at Per­gamus. Who hath not heard speake of the Chappel of that Pasiphaé, which was adored in the suburbs of Lacedimon, and beyond Venus de Gaze, where the young maids went to dream the adventures of their Lovers? without doubt this infamous commerce, which continues yet to this day with the divels, upon the successe of marriages, hath no other beginning but in these sacriligious observations of the idolaters. We know but too much the impurity of these devotions: for those that propose to themselves other ends then to know marriages, behold the cere­mony of them.

Those that consult the divels, after they have sacrific'd a black sheep unto them, [Page 25]wrap'd themselves round about with his skin, and slept so in their temples, to the end, to oblige them both by their confi­dence and liberality, to discover unto them in dreames, what is to arrive unto them: I confesse, that these false divini­ties expected not alwaies, that these poor blinded souls should render them such ridiculous homages, as if they were provoked to prevent their merit, they devanced sometimes the devotions. And therefore when Socrates dreamed that he entred into the town of Phthia, which was interpreted of his death, because that word signified corruption, his Gods used magnificence. And when Odatis loved her dear Zariader, and Zariader his faire Odatis, without ever seeing one another but in a dream; and that a while after that Infanta presented the viol of gold, (which was to choose her a husband) to that young Prince, who appeared un­known in her chamber, it was an effect of their impulsion, rather then of her pru­dence. I speak not of Alexander, who dreamed the taking of Tyre, in seeing a Satyre in his sleepe, as those Divines in­terpret it, because that Satyros signifies in the Greek language, Tyre is thine. [Page 26]Did not Const [...]ntius also receive an ad­vertisement of his disaster, going against the Sarazines, when he imagined in his sleep that he went forth of Thessalonica, whose sylables (divided) make these three words, Thes al [...]o nequin, leave the victo­ry to another. When Astia [...] saw a vine to come forth from the belly of Mandana, and the mother of Augustus believed that her bowels were carried away unto heaven, the divels pretended to put themselves in credit by the presages of a greatnesse, which they promised in dreames, and which the true God desti­ned them in truth.

But to the end that these events and such others as resemble them, may not carry our spirit to believe that all our dreames are true, it is fit to consider what conjectures wee may innocently draw from them: and to speake in few words what I think thereof, it is certain, that we ought as little to suspect the truth of the dreames which come from God, as to receive those which come from the divels, though sometimes they be free from imposture; the reason is, that we owe our beliefe unto God, and our contempt to the divels. Neverthe­lesse, [Page 27]it appertaineth not to every one to judge of these nocturnall visions, prudence obligeth us to leave the discern­ment thereof to those that govern our consciences. In regard of the naturall dreams, whither they proceed from the reflection which the soule makes upon its passed actions, or that they have their principle in the habitude of the body it is evident that one may recollect without crime what is to arrive unto us, since the humour which commands within us is the necessary cause thereof, and the rest of our precedent actions, may be the signs of those which are to follow. Behold the bond or annexion of the accidents of our life with our dreams, & consequently the foun­dation which they give to the presages which we draw from them. Dreams pro­ceed for the most part from the tempera­ment, the temperament forms our manners, our manners have an ascendant upon out actions in that they produce them or rule them; our journal actions have much relation and power upon the effects, whose causes are secret to us. There is no magick then but the spirit sees our accidents in our dreams, provided, that one assures not this infallible sight. So [Page 28]we learn from the conduct of the spiri­tual Fathers, that one may form proba­ble judgments, not from the act, but from the inclination of the vice, or of the vertue of a persons dreames. Behold upon what foundation a man that feares to sinne, even in his sleepe, and resists the filthy imaginations thereof, can assure himself that he loves purity, and that an unlawful pleasure should be troubled to surprise his reason when it awakes. The conjectures which concern not the liberty are lesse suspected: therefore it may bee believed that he who dreames but of plea­sant things is of a sanguine humour, that those in whom Phlegme predominates, have in their visions but water, shipwrack, raine and snowes; the cholerick makes still almost warre, during the profound peace of his repose: and the melancholy sees not but sorrowful objects, and horri­ble phantosmes. Thus the physicians can prudently judge of the intemperature of the humour, by the assiduity of dream­ing the same things. Now the reason why we know better the excesse of the temperament of that which passeth in the night then the day, it is that the humour suffers not any diversion in its operations, [Page 29]whilst the soule reposes, and that being not imployed in her most important actions, she suspendeth not those of the body, which follows ordinarily her application. I pretend not to deny, that the most fa­miliar source of our dreams, is in the en­tertainments and businesses of the day; because that the species thereof being yet fully fresh, the spirit, which is at leisure, amuseth it self to review them; and because that its reason is but half awaked, it rangeth them so ill, and confounds them, sometimes with so much disorder, that of the fairest images of the day▪ there succedeth thereof but strange grotesques or confused representations. Behold, my Lord, from whence I thinke that your dreame proceedes, you ought not then, in my opinion, to conclude that there is any thing mis­chievous to arrive to your Lady, but rather that your imagination hath not well rallied all the thoughts which have entertained you since your departure from her. So ended hee his discourse.

Thanks unto God, I have not so weak a spirit, to yeild me to the presages of an evil dream; notwithstanding, if the Vul­ture [Page 30]were a Monster, cruel enough to fi­gure an inhumane Prince, I would say, un­fortunate Gerard, that it should be thee. I know not whether it was by hazard, or through design, that this young Lord was present at the discourse of the Jew. How­soever it was, it is certain, that all being departed from his Chamber, he went to the King, to the end to make him apprehend how much his health-imported the repose of his State; and that the interest of one sole child should not make so many people suffer. All the difficulty that seemed to be in the thing, was to meet with one of a fit Birth. Gerard, who played the Poli­titian; judged that there was hazard in chusing one of the Iland, for as much as his death might alter the spirit of many of his most faithful subjects. But the sick was soone assured, by the offer which a cruel Unkle made him to release him of his pain. My Reader, wonder not if I conceal you his name, I have no lesse shame, then horrour to know it, and would it had pleased God that it had never been known in the History.

Let us withdraw from a Court▪ where we should be constrained to assist at the massacre of an Innocent, it is better to [Page 31]passe into that of our Dutchesse, where all the world rejoyced in the hope to see there suddenly a new Master. Though Hi [...]lan­da had cause to fear her first throwes, she expected notwithstanding the pains there­of with impatience: The desire which she had to leave a pledg of her chaste amours to the Prince, made her to say a hundred times, that she should dye contentedly, if she might give her life to a son, and a son to her Husband: The joy of all this House was much augmented, when it was told to the Dutchesse that her Brother in Law was upon the point to arrive. As soon as she had advertisement thereof, she ran with all the speed that shee could to meet him.

Deplorable Princess, What do you? Apprehend you not a fall, which it seemes you seek by your precipitation? Let us not retain her, joy transports her, there can be but little moderation, where there is much affection. Scarce had she met this dear brother at the entrance of the Castle, but she cast her selfe about his neck: to tell you what she did, it would be to tell you little lesse then what she would have done if her Artus had been returned. On the other side, Gerard rendred her all the Te­stimonies [Page 32]which could be expected from a true amity.

Madam (said he at the same time that he feigned to be able to speak) I should have other then common words to expresse unto you my resentments. I am ravished to see you, but I am the more so, in that I cannot tell it you, to see you in the con­dition to be one of the happiest mothers of the earth. If I deceive me not, you are upon the point to give us a young Artus, at least your Vermilion complection, and that vigour which appeareth in your whole body makes me believe that you have con­ceived nothing but what is generous. Though you have more need of a Midwife then of a younger Brother, who is not versed therein; I rejoyce notwithstand­ing to be at your lying in, to the end, to render you a part of the offices and tender­nesses which you should expect from my Brother; it seemes long unto me till I hold that little Babe in my armes. (Oh Traitor! it will be too soon.) Besides, I declare un­to you, my good Sister, that it belongs unto me to rock him, and that I will not suffer any body to pay him these petty Devoires to my prejudice. The sweetnesse of this Complement mollified Hirlanda in such [Page 33]manner, that she could not reply unto him one sole word; so was it better to answer him with the heart, then with the mouth.

Some dayes slid away in good cheer, and preparatives for the Lying in; nine months being now even fully accomplished since the Conception of the Dutchess. The good mother would her self prepare the little swadling cloaths, and other movea­bles for her dear Infant, Whilst this happy day advanced, what did Gerard? He put on the best countenance he could to beget in the Dutchesse a perfect confidence of an unfeigned Amity. But alas! Heart of man, how perfidious art thou? At the same time that his sister made him all the Entertainment that she could, he mingled with it the most dangerous perplexity that her Innocence could fear. The Midwife and Nurse, who attended the Birth of that little Prince, were already in Hirlanda her house; since the arrival of her Brother in Law; these were the two women that he attempted, but with so much cunning, that his conduct passed in the beginning for a simple design only to affectionate them to the succours of his sister, and to the eares of her child. He advised them notwith­standing to discover nothing of his Lib [...]ra­lities [Page 34]to the other Domesticks; for feare that his favour might put them into jealou­sie; nor likewise to his Sister, lest that it might passe with her in stead of the re­compence which she destined them. At last, after a long practise, judging that he possessed enough the spirit of these Mer­cenary souls, he declared unto them that their fortune depended on their courage, and that if they had never so little heart, they might hope good fortune enough. The assurance to put themselves in place where they should have nothing to feare, gave them the boldnesse to enterprize any thing. And then all that he demanded from their fidelity, was to feigne that his sisters child was dead in her labour, and to follow him in a Country, where he preten­ded to cause it to be brought up, for great reasons, which obliged him to withdraw it from its mother.

At last the very moment of lying in ar­rived, the Convulsions thereof were so vi­olent for the space of a day, that it was ea­sily believed, that nothing would proceed thence, but the death of the poor Princess. It is true yet, that she was delivered in a swoun, which gave opportunity enough to those whom Gerard had gained, to betake [Page 35]themselves to the sea, where a Shallop at­tended them. They were to imbark in a place of the Armorick, which at this day is called Quidalet, and was then named Alethe, a word which in its Orginal sig­nifies Errour, this place merited formerly so much veneration from the Inhabitants of these coasts, that all the slaves which the tempest brought to this Sanctuary, reco­vered their liberty as soon as they touched the borders of that happy Land. But this good fortune hapned not to those that stole away our little Prince, for scarce were they entred into their Shallop, but a troop of armed men boarded them; their angry Visages, and their naked swords shined so bright amidst the darknesse, which the first break of the day had not fully dissipated, that our Fugitives could draw from thence but a fatal presage of their ruine. Be­hold them then Captives, and loaden with Irons in a place where the most miserable quitted them: These poor people surpri­sed with an accident, which they had nei­ther apprehended nor foreseen, doubted whether they should lament or blesse their very fortunate misfortune. The know­ledge which they had of their Crime gave them too much fear of the punishment, to [Page 36]rejoice at this favourable disaster. On the other side, seeing themselves delivered from a death which they began to taste when they were arrested, it was impossible that the present joy should not put some good interval to the fears which their evil conscience furnished them.

Adoreable providence of God, which conducts so wisely the misfortunes of the wicked, that it leaves them fear enough in the bottom of their hearts to punish them, and confidence whereby not to yeild themselves to despair. My Reader, You know the just Motive of their apprehensi­on, but you are ignorant for a while of that of their joy; be not troubled with that which is to arrive to our Fugitives, there is but one Innocent amongst them: Perhaps these Strangers that hold him, will have pity of his misery. But though they should want sweetnesse to spare his life, the death which they shall make him suf­fer, will be a favour to him; both because it will be more humane then that which they destine him, and because he is lesse sensible of the grief, then he shall be, if compassion permits him to grow up. In re­spect of them who have carried him away, there is nothing too cruel and rigorous [Page 37]that may arrive unto them: let their Pi­rats have all the ill will that the sea hath ever maintained, it will not be too much to punish them. I would not have you to consider a poor mother in the convulsions of death; I would not have you think of the interest of a Prince, who is not yet un­fortunate, but with the foresight of his misfortune. It is sufficient to make you consent to the death of the guilty, to put you in mind of their Treason. Without doubt servants merit not for the most part the outrages which they receive from their Masters: if they are faithful, they ought to be humane to them. But if avarice or some other passion takes from them that quality which hinders them to be our most dangerous enemies, because they are our Domesticks, I think that we cannot have too much severity to punish them: But if nothing obligeth us to their pardon, when their infidelity toucheth but our goods, who could give us a thought of goodnesse in their behalfe, when their rage assaulteth our honour, or our lives?

Poor Artus, it is now that you should see your dear Hirlanda, either dead, or dying upon her bed; it is now that you [Page 38]should find a Vulture and Harpies about her. It is true, that they are gone, and that there rests nothing by the desolate Princesse, but the marks of their cruelty on her disgraced face, and in her languish­ing eyes.

As soon as the sorrowful Lady came a­gain to her self, and that grief permitted her to sigh, she demanded her child. A­las, Madam, (replyed one of her women) be not curious to see him, he is in a condi­tion more capable to give you horror then consolation. It is no matter (said the poor mother) let him be brought unto me. You will dye then (answered that subtil Wretch, who had all the intentions of Gerard) at a lesse rate then that. I think that you should not fix your eyes upon a body half formed, or to speak better, up­on a lump of flesh, which denotes as lit­tle life as humane shape; they have alrea­dy cast it into the earth. My dear Girle, tell me at least, is it Christian? Ma­dam, you should ask, if it be Man.

Let us not stay by this unfortunate Prin­cesse, she enters again into the Agony of her Trances, but it is to bring forth no­thing but sighs and plaints. I assure you, my Reader, that there is no lesse trouble [Page 39]to expresse them then to hear them, and that it is equally impossible for me to be the Spectatour thereof, and the VVriter. To offend neither your eyes or ears, I think it is fit to withdraw us from Hirlan­da's chamber, for I am perswaded, that you desire to understand the Adventures of our poor little Infidel. Whatsoever curio­sity presseth you, you must know many things before that: and really, though we are troubled to see the miseries of our Dutchesse, it is fitter now that we are ac­customed to her evils, to suffer them in company, then so discretely to husband our grief. I conjure notwithstanding the Reader, if it happens that he deplores with her, not to blame me of hardnesse; it will not be the Artifice of my Discourse, nor the force of my expression, that shall oblige him to this resentment, but only the cruelty of her fortune.

The Princess was not yet up of her Child­bed, but her brother in Law began to give her more open proofs of his ill will; first by an usage very rude, and then by words extremely injurious. O God, what a cru­el displeasure is it to a mother, to reproach her, that she is the Homicide of her fruit! This was notwithstanding the Crime [Page 40]wherewith Gerard accused his sister, ad­ding, that if she had had as much love for her husband, as she had for a certain Gen­tleman her neighbour, she would not have so ill husbanded the hopes of her house.

Poor Hirlanda! What can you say to these sorrowful newes? But what could you do when you perceived, that the Ar­tifices of your cruel brother in Law had changed the spirit of all your Domesticks? That of the Dutchesse was not malicious e­nough to penetrate the intricacy of that conduct; behold the natural recital there­of. There was amongst the women of Hirlanda a Damosel, who had alwayes had her principal confidence; it was she that contributed most to her ruine. Ge­rard having known the weaknesse of that maid, he gained her in such sort to his pas­sion, that he disposed of her more abso­lutely then modesty and fidelity would allow her. This was the confident he made use of to affright her Mistresse, an hundred times a day she cast new fears in­to her soul, as if she had discovered the secrets of Gerard. Hirlanda knew well that her Brother had very much altered her Husband against her, which he ex­pressed [Page 41]unto her by a letter, whose outra­gious complements made of her eyes two living sources of tears: Notwith­standing, the Duke had not spoken so clearly, that he could content Gerard, nor assure the Princesse; but if he gave cause of fear to his wife, he furnished the means to embroile his brother. He did it with too much successe; for that cursed confi­dent, having told her a hundred times, that that young Prince had com­mission from Artus to put her to death, she cast such an apprehension into her minde, that having no other coun­sel but fear, she resolved her selfe upon a flight.

Co poor Princess, go amongst the launds and forrests, though you may find there Bears and Wolves, you shall find nothing so cruel as a brother in law. The desire which I have that those who have began to peruse this history, may finish it, obligeth me to say nothing of the sorry equipage of our fugitive, because I am assured that the recital which I should make thereof, would give more desire to deplore, then curiosity to read. Let us let Hirlanda go.

I know not whether Gerard was ravished [Page 42]with the resolution which his sister had taken; for as much as he believed to have in her flight strong proofs against her innocence: he made semblance not­withstanding to make search for her, to the end, that Artus might not suspect him of collusion in his carriage. After a diligence which might beget a beliefe that he had sought her, he would go unto the Duke himself to be the messenger of so many wretched tidings: it is not ne­cessary to touch by parcels the addresses which he used to assist the jealousie of his brother. I fear already, that I have left an ill example to posterity, without needing to leave it such particular instru­ctions of malice. Perhaps some one will find it very strange, that Gerard imployed not poison to rid himself of his sister: without doubt there is cause to wonder at it, since he had rage and baseness enough. Notwithstanding, to examine well his conduct, we have wherewith to praise his evil policy; for his design being to enjoy the inheritance of his brother: he would not give him the means of having heirs, in leaving him the liberty to chuse another wife. Behold then a man in a new celibat, from whence he was not sure to come [Page 43]forth till after seven years, which the sim­plicity of our ancestors destined to the uncertainty of widow-hoods.

I should amuse my Reader with things which would give him impatience, if I would relate what passed in Hirlanda's house, fince she quitted it. In my opini­on, it is better to seek our unhappy Prin­cesse, then to instruct ones selfe with the regrets of her unfortunate hus­band.

He lived almost seven years in a melan­tholy which punished sensibly, though slowly, his precipitation, when a troop of Gentlemen (his neighbours) came to take leave of him for a voyage to Saint Michel. Every one knowes that this place of devo­tion is in the confines of those two Nati­ons, who, for being of very different humours, have need of an armed Saint to keepe them in peace. It is true, that the jealousie to possesse so powerfull a Protector, would trouble their repose, if to content those two people, the river Coesnon lost not his in quitting his bed, to the end, that successively this glo­rious Archangel might be Norman and Brittain.

As this Nobility of whom I have spo­ken, [Page 44]had rendred these devoirs to that Prince of the Angels, one of the most considerable of the troop named de l'Olive, took leave of his companions to visit an aunt which hee had a little further into Normandie: he was not a little troubled to find her house, which a very great wood covered of all sides, and perhaps he had not found it, if he had not met with a country woman, who put him into the path which led to the castle; Inform you not of her name, it sufficeth to know that it was a poor woman, who had the care of ordering the affairs of the back Court. She had led the flocks to the field to cheer them a little; but to speak truth, it was rather to weep with more liberty.

One cannot easily expresse the good entertainment which our Cavalier received in the house of his aunt: all the neigh­bour-hood was invited to come to contri­bute to that good Ladies rejoycement. The place of that abode was one of the most agreeable residences that one could desire to be in: but to speak the truth, the winter there was a hideous, as in any other place of the earth; all the avenues thereof were so hindred by the [Page 45]waters which rouled down in its valley, that one might believe it was not with­out artifice that the approach unto it was forbidden: this inconvenience of co­ming forth, obliged the company to remaine in the house, and to divert it self in the halls and galleries. It pleaseth me to make you participate of a passe­time which meriteth your attention, since it can as much instruct your spirit, as it contented the eyes and ears of those that practised it. There was a gallery in that house, which looked upon the East, where all the Promenades of winter were formed. Those who had given them design, had suggested them ornament. All the walls were adorned with excellent pictures; but one should offend the Mistresse of the house, to believe that she could have suffered that what was but to recreate the sight, should serve here to wound hearts. Shee had too much charity to propose naked persons to the cruel rigours of a cold which pardoned not even those who were the best cloathed: there was not one figure which was not modest: the Painter himself had given so much natu­ralnesse to their decencie, that one would think that modesty animate; but if there [Page 46]appeared any naked thing in the cloth, a reasonable spirit would easily judge that the expression of the history was more look'd upon then the design of the pleasure.

One afternoone, as all the company was in that gallery, they prayed a very un­derstanding old Gentleman to decipher these pictures, and to serve for interpre­ter to those strangers, who spake to all the world without being understood but▪ of the Learned, because the language of picture, though sensible, is mute. After a long refusal in point of modesty, that wise Seigneur, who would rather have concealed, then produced that treasure which sew persons love, began his discourse in these terms; Since you wil not consider that those of my age speak sometimes too long, I run the hazard of being trouble­some unto you, by the obligation which you impose on me to bee complacent. Your curiosity will make your patience to suffer: I promise you notwithstanding, though I cannot content the former, that I will relieve the later as soon as you shall signifie to me that you desire it. The season invites us not to the bath, yet I must (without quitting that good fire) [Page 47]lend you in the first place to that river which seems to flow from that cloth. Would you not judg by the inequality of those floods which raise themselves one upon the other, that they crowd toge­ther to fly? You comprehend well that this river is no other but the miraculous labourer of Egypt, of whom the history tels us so many wonders. That Nimph which you see at the place from whence the water seems to come, is it not the fa­mous Isi, unto whose tears the fable at­tributes the inundation of Nile, which hath no other cause but the raines and snowes of Ethiopia. It is true that the young maid weeps, and therefore shee augments these waters; but besides that, the little which she contributes thereto cannot make a great inundation; she hath a much truer, and more sensible cause of tears, then the death of Osiris. I perceive the little Moses, whom the cruelty of Phara [...]h hath condemned with all the Hebrew males unto ship-wrack; his poor sister sighes his misfortune, and attends at that river side, by her mothers com­mand, the sad successe of his fortune; she works pity in you, I make no doubt on't; let us not lose our tears, though [Page 48]after her example: though this little Prophet hath no other bark then that rush pannier, which is given him for a tombe, he shall find a happy port, because hee hath God for Pilot. Behold that Prin­cesse that walks upon the brink of the river with her maids, Chance brings her not there, her design is to bath her self in those wholesome waters which make women fruitful, to the end, to give an heir unto Egypt: She seeks a son for her Father, and heaven raises her up a God, so the Scripture names this poor deserted infant. But alas, a new danger threatens his life; I see him in that place where the water turns from him. It is one of those monsters, to whom Nature hath not given terms of greatnesse, perhaps, be­cause they encrease alwaies in cruelty. Would you not say that this Crocodile hides himself in the bul-rushes, to expect his prey there, and that he opens his mouth already to devour it? Notwithstan­ding, though the eye judges that his floods advance and conduct that vessel into this gulfe, he ought not to fear any thing that is within; for besides that, that this monster is well fixed to the picture, he takes a posture that cannot give distrust▪ [Page 49]That bird which playes in his throat, is the little Trochilus, which we call Roytelet. There is a very strait amity between these two animals, though farre different in humour, which shewes that resem­blance is not alwaies the mother of love. Consider, I pray you, the pleasure that this dragon takes in the service of his little friend, who rids the teeth of the remains of his dinner. The industry of the Pain­ter appeareth in this, that he expresseth even the pain that this sluggish beast hath to hold up his jaws so long, but he witnes­seth well that he knowes the secrets of Nature, since from the back of the bird he hath framed towards the palate of the Crocodile, a very sharp feather, which threatens him with a wound, if he give him not leisure to finish his businesse. We should not imagine that to make a perfect picture, the Painter wanted dis­course, in exposing a Queen to that fierce animal. He knows well that the Croco­dile hath no crueltie in that place of the Nile, not by reason of that plumme which a famous Magician cast therein, as the history will have us believe; but be­cause of the abundant feeding that is there, without being obliged to seek it, [Page 50]as above Memphis, where the fish is scarce. Forget not to observe, that the pensil hath even put that secret into the countenance of those women, since they all look upon the monster with assurance. These sheep which ruminate in the shade of the sedges, wherewith the river is palisado'd, though fearful, are without apprehension; so per­ceive they not the wolf, that carries away one of their companions; nothing hinders him to bleat, but that crafty animal, who takes him by the throat, for fear that his cry should discover his theft: the dogs do what they can to overtake that robber, but the perspective hath put him so farre off, that their diligence is unprofitable. In the mean time the shepherds sleep at their ease, because they know not their losse. One would swear that he who leans against the trunk of that tree, blows; the inflation of his mouth perswades me so almost. What say you of that tree which is inveloped only with one leaf of Mosse? That fantasie is of Art, which teacheth us by that ingenious Gro­tesque, the natural freshness of those leavs, and their excessive largeness.

The Interpretet made here a little pause, and looking about for a Gentle­woman [Page 51]of the company, who was of a sweet humour, and good wit, he said unto her, I fear that you have no desire to taste the fruits which are fastened to that tree, for if we believe the Orientials, it is the tree of knowledg, whose fruit is called amongst them Magadan, Adams apples, and really, besides their beauty and figure, which resembles very much our citrons, their taste is very agreeable to the mouth, and dangerous to the sto­mach, which denoteth sin wel, that hath something sweet in its birth.

The second Tablet represents that fa­mous judgment which was the first effect of Solomons wisedome; two women lying together in one and the same chamber, it happened one night, that the most negli­gent smothered her infant, whom she had put in the bed by her, to give it more easily the teat. That which she did, being awaked, signified enough that this accident was without design, and without malice; for scarce perceived she it, but behold her at her companions bed, from whence she took her son, substituting the dead one in his place. The morning which discovered this deceit, put much trouble in the house. Each of the mo­thers [Page 52]protested that hers liv'd, and that the other had rob'd her of it. Solomon, who began to be King, must begin to be Judg, through an affair so confused: that woman of the two which feigned best, seem'd in the judgment of all the Counsel to uphold solidly her cause. No, said the young Prince, it is not just that one alone possesse wholly this infant, since the right of the one, is not more cleer then that of the other; to content them both, let it be divided. To see the personages of this picture, you would judg that this sentence took from them all their colour and mo­tion, except from the false mother, who laughed with pleasure, approving a cruelty which was favourable unto her. You know the subject of that picture, but per­haps you discover not the artifice thereof. Before you consider it, I would fain tell you that the Painter hath committed a fault, not in his art, whose lawes he hath perfectly-observed, but in Cronologie, placing Solomon in that miraculous throne, which he built not but long time after this judgment. It is to be believed, that this happy fault was of purpose, and that he would rather appear Architect, then scrupulous in the knowledg of the times; [Page 53]so is there not a piece which is not studi­ed, be it in the body of the work, be it in the columns, the chapters, the frize, and the rest of its ornaments. Really, if I knew not that these Lions, which hold up the tribunal, are of gold and Iyroy, I should fear that they were living. Let us looke but on the principal of the piece; should you not say that these two old men who are by the King, do meditate the reasons of a sentence, which surpriseth their wise­dome? In the mean time, a souldier of the guard takes that poor little one who lives even in the image, and holding him up by the heels, he stretches out his arm with strength, the better to assure his stroak; his sight is fixed upon the place where he intends to make the division to render it more easie▪ notwithstanding he hath a corner of his eye upon the King, participating his look to those two ob­jects, as if he demanded the time to let fall his stroke: it is this that ought to take fear from you, in that he hurts not that Innocent, who though turn'd topsie turvie, endeavours unprofitably to joyn his hands in the aire by an instinct of nature, who also turns his eyes unto heaven▪ from whence we learn at our birth, that it is [Page 54]from thence that our assistance comes. But I pray you to consider how his leg and left thigh falling upon his flank, make there, with their weight, a marvellous con­traction. The distention of his stomack caused by the fall of his belly, merits no lesse admiration, since it expresseth even the paine of the infant. That young woman which you see at the end of the Picture, and who holds her apron in a condition to receive the half of that body, pretends to be the mother thereof, though to speak truth, there is not one feature in her face that witnesseth it. She seems to have left all the fear and pity on the coun­tenance of that good old woman that fol­lows her: consider, I pray you how fear withdraws her lips, to the end, that only one tooth which is left her may appear; her front, where every moment of her life hath plac'd a wrinkle, heaps it self up in the midst in such sort, that you might judg that all these lines have their center there, to mark unto her the hour of dying. Since you are neer enough to that pillar, forget not to behold that little boy, who hides himself under its garlands and em­broideries. You believe that it is but an ornament of the hall, which is represented [Page 55]in the picture, and yet to see the endea­vour that he makes to raise himself aloft, and his attention on that which is done below, you would say that he fears for all the little boyes. I know not if it be that child which is going to dy that makes him afraid, or he that you see dead in that square: his lips already blue, and the acti­on of that dog, which nothing but his attachment hinders to sent him, shew suffi­ciently that he is the sorrowful subject of that process. Good God, how the death of him that lives yet, appears na­turally in the face of the true mother! one would easily believe that she hath nothing more then these two words to say unto Solomon, Sir, I quit my part of him; see how she stretches her arms be­tween the sword and her son, either to stop, or to receive the stroak. You know the rest of the History, so that it shall not need to trouble you more: if I had not forgotten the discretion that I pro­mised you, I had made an end long since of wronging your patience. Old men have short memories, and great inclination to speak, as I have already said unto you: I shall be so short in that which remains, that your goodness wil voluntarily pardon [Page 56]my former tediousnesse. You judg with­out doubt, by these trees and hills which shew themselves but half-waies, that the Painter represents us a night in his work: this deep silence which makes the repose of all Nature, seems it not likewise express'd unto you by the pensil: how that hare which I perceive in that bush gathers up himself perfectly in form, and how these little birds which cannot be distin­guished, because the obscurity makes them all of one colour, sleep quietly. I should fear that that greatest, which a darkness more charged makes me take for a Mearl, should tumble, if I knew not that a fall upon the wing is without dan­ger of hurt. But though the shadows would not mark out into you suffici­ently a night, in lifting your eyes towards the heaven, which a pale and wash'd Azure depaints above the Picture, the stars would make it appear sufficiently. Know you not the Bear, which shines with more brightness then any other of these stars? behold a little lower Andromeda▪ behold the Swan; I know not if it be of purpose or by chance that the Painter hath made nothing to break but the constella­tions, which mark unto us the flight or [Page 57]retrait of some one of the earth into hea­ven. I should believe it almost, if he had not lightly traced the milky way, by which the Profane assure that the Gods go to counsel, and the Pilgrims to Saint James, us the simple imagine. That young wo­man who is mounted upon an Ass, and holds a child in her armes, it is the divine Mary, who comes forth of that Village which you see in the bottome of the Pi­cture. Her poor Husband followes her, leading the Asse which carries all the bag­gage of the greatest and most illustrious Familie of the Universe. Perceive you not that the darknesse retires at the ap­proach of these Torches, which two An­gels carry before their little Monarch. This imagination of the Painter is excellent, but his thought is better yet, since he pretends to insinuate, that the Eclipse of that divine Sun which hides himself in our flesh, ap­peareth to the world to dissipate our dark­nesse. He goeth forthwith to invade that of Egypt, which is its true Country, since Moses was there a miraculous night in plain midday.

This last Tablet where I see the mas­sacre of the Innocents, carries the subject of the flight of Jesus and of his mother: [Page 58]you know too well the History thereof to believe me obliged to make you the reci­tal of it. Regard the Action of these Per­sonages, you may say, that there is not one of them which cryes not, except that poor mother, whose tongue the Executi­oner roots out, to punish her with her grief, and to hinder her to complain. I fear to be cruel in obliging you to turne your eyes upon those three Souldiers, who make a Pyramide of the heads of these pi­tiful Victimes. It is true, that their rage equals not that of this other, who for fear that a poor woman should conceal her son in her belly, teares it out gasping from her bowels. Behold another sitting, who indeavoured to feigne that she hath no fear, because she hath no Infant: but whilst she useth this innocent hypocrisie, I know not if that poor little one, fearing that he should not be a Martyr, advan­ceth his arme from beneath her coat where he was hidden. One of these Inhumanes mocketh it, and cuts it behind, ma­king signe to his companion to finish. See (I pray you) the despair of that mother, who afflicts her self at this, that drawing herson from between the hands of the Ex­ecutioner, there remaines in her hands but [Page 59]one thigh of him. Not one appeared more content then she, who leaning her self upon her child to cover it from the sword, received it athwart her body. This sad Spectacle afflicts you, I make no doubt on't, so will I stay your eyes no longer there; I desire only that you would consi­der the endeavour which that woman makes to withdraw hers; one would judg that she puts it out of the Picture, so much sally hath the Painter given it; but alas! she cannot keep it from the Courte­dass, which cleaves it in two in the midst of the air.

Whilst that this wise old man entertain­ed the company with so much satisfaction, that it would be hard to expresse it, it hap­ned that the Chevalier d [...] Olive cast his sight upon that woman who had conducted him to the Castle [...] you would have said, that all this discourse had no o­ther design but to make her weep; not­withstanding, as she perceived that they dooked upon her, she constrained her eyes to an obedience, which was not very per­fect, because that from time to time her cears began again to distil. I can no lon­ger forbear to tell you that this unknowne person was our unfortunate Hirlanda, who [Page 60]for seven yeares remained in that house in quality of a servant; her greatest trouble was, to let nothing appear of her con­dition: but though her Prudence had al­wayes suppressed the liveliest splendour thereof, she could not so conceal her self, but her Mistress discovered many things that made her to be considered. Behold that which obliged her to keep her by her, and to love her discourse. It is hard for a Peasant to act a Prince, there will often­times slip from him something of the Countrey. A Person of Birth hath no lesse trouble to dissemble; though his for­tune should bellow, his courage is alwayes high. If it happeneth likewise that he is constrained to humble himself to Imploy­ments unworthy of his blood, it com­municates unto them, I know not what Grace, which ennobleth them, and hinders them to be Rustick Occupa­tions

But alas, how much more desiteable had it been to our Dutchesse, not so often to approach her that took so much pleasure in her Service? At least it cannot be de­nyed but this last Encounter was fatal to her; for at last the misfortune of her poor child was not so prudent concealed but [Page 61]some inkling thereof was come to her ears. She had heard it reported, that that deare moity of her self had been ravished from her, that they had exposed it to the trea­cherous waters of the sea, and that a com­pany of Pirats had seised the vessel that carried it away. Was not this enough to perswade her, that these Pictures which were deciphered in her presence, were but Images of her misfortune; so believed she that the designe of this discourse looked upon her, though there was no such thought. When they spake of the little Moses abandoned to the floods of Nile, Love said unto her, Poor Hirlanda, be­hold thy poor Infant: if she contempla­ted the Massacre of the Innocents, present­ly she imagined that hers had met with some Herod. The flight of the holy mo­ther of God, and her exile into Egypt, made her to remember the day that she left her house, and her seven years abode in that of her Mistress. She cared not to as­swage her grief in considering the happy end of the Adventures which the Painter had represented in his Work. She chose not in their History, but that which was proper to her affliction. Good God, how weak is the spirit of m [...]n to resist an evil, [Page 62]and how ingenious it is to augment its troubles!

Hirlanda, is there nothing in all these Pi­ctures capable to consolate your grief by the hope of a better fortune? Cherish you your misfortune so tenderly, that you should seek with care the meanes to enter­tain it? I confesse, that the disaster of your son, cannot have more illustrious fi­gures then Moses and those other chil­dren; but why take you only that which is evil in their History? But if your mo­desty makes you to believe that having no­thing like to their merit, you ought not to expect any thing equal to the benefits which obligeth them, I consent that you should presume little of your vertue, pro­vided that you conceive no: any distrust of Gods goodnesse. Expect not the favor [...] that appertain but to the Patriarks and Saints, but despair not of a protection, which he denies not even to his enemies. Since you cannot think that he saves your little Prince with the Prophets, be confi­dent that he will not despise him more then the Profane. If all these great mira­cles cannot move your spirit, nor so ma­ny rich Pictures leave any impression in your sentments, cast at least a light view [Page 63]upon these hangings; you shall see there Romulus by a Wolf that gives him suck, and Cyrus by a dog that defends him: Hieron is exposed here to the Hornets, and Lagus to the Vultures; but a swarm of Bees stands Sentinel for that, and an Ea­gle for this. Forget not to consider La­misses, whom Agolmond King of the Lom­bards raises from the end of his Lance to the Throne, drawing him out of a Lake where he had been cast with his six twin Brothers. Hirlanda cannot stop her self at this.

Notwithstanding let us not believe that this hapned without the conduct of that Providence which governes the least acci­dents of the world. I said, that the Lord d' Olive perceived the Dutchesse teares, which obliged him from time to time to look upon her. As he considered her, a thought came into his mind, that she was without doubt that unfortunate Princesse, which vanished away in Bretany. She seemed unto him at first extravagant, as being not able to finde a woman of that condition in a Country Chamber-maid; notwithstanding considering the features of her face and her stature, he concluded that he need no more doubt thereof. When [Page 64]the company was retired, our Knight went to find out his Ant, and prayed her to tell him the truth. The good Lady, who knew well enough how to treat persons of that quality, replyed unto him, that if God had done her the favour to send unto her a woman of that rank and merit, she would not fail in the duties of a most hum­ble servant.

Lastly, not able to quit this imaginati­on, he conjured her to examine that stran­ger, and to constrain her to declare her name and Country. Not to make unpro­fitable Discourses, Hirlanda confessed that she was that unfortunate Dutchesse; this confession changed the whole house, for as much as she that commanded, would now obey at her turn. D' Olive failed not to render her all the respects that he believed was due unto her, both in regard of her Dignity, and because of her vertue. Notwithstanding they judged wisely, that they should not make this report to break forth at a clap, and prudence obli­ged them to live in the same conduct, which appeared before.

Hirlanda was not troubled to play her part, because she exercised it many years; but surely our good Ant suffered much, [Page 65]when she must act the Mistresse. A hun­dred times before she was aware, she ren­dred her great submissions, and called her Madam in the presence of her Domesticks: for our Gentleman, he resolved to passe in­to Bretany, to the end to dispose the Duke to the return of his innocent wife: Upon the point to depart, he protested that he should never he content untill he saw his Princesse in the honours which she merited, and that he should think his life wel imployed, if he might dye in maintaining her Vertue. The Dutchess failed not to assure him of the esteem which she made of his Service, but that it would be an inconsolate regret unto her to see him take pains to procure her content.

‘My Cavaliere (said she) I cannot dissemble to you, that your good will obli­geth me, and that though I have not the means to acknowledge it, I have heart e­nough to resent it. I owe to your Courage rather then to my Vertue, the Design which you take to relieve an oppressed Innocence; but permit me to tell you, that I more de­sire to live unknown then justified, and l [...]sse covet the Dignity of a Dutchesse, then che­rish the condition of a Slave. Alas, what advantage procure you me▪ when you shall [Page 66]place we again in Artus house▪ Perhaps I shall be there more happy then in the first yeers of my Marriage, and shall find ano­ther Husband then he that threatned me with death? Doth not Gerard live still? And if he lives, what should I hope from him after a Turkish cruelty? Think you that he that chargeth me with the death of an Innocent, whom he hath massacred, can suffer a face which reproacheth his cruelty to him? Hath he not the same motives to hurt me, and his brother the same weakness to believe him without hearing me? O how much more desireable is it to me to remaine unknown in a house where Vertue defends me from inquietudes, then to go seek new tempests, where I have never found repose. Would you ravish from me the delights which I taste by your Aunt, who is to me in stead of a mother, since I had the happiness to be knowne unto her? Is there any thing in the Palace of Artus, which countervails the sweetness which I taste in this concealed life, where the goodnesse of God renders it self so sensible to my poor heart, that I doubt if the place of my Exile be not of my glory. But though so favourable a San­ctuary should be grievous unto me, and that I should promise me more love and fide­delity [Page 67]amongst my own, what is there in that sweet life that is constant and must not end? Believe me (my Cavaliere) that fair vanity of the Court lasts not al­wayes, we must soon or late break those fet­ters of Gold, which makes so many volun­tary slaves. Should you have so little goodness for me, to perswade me to put my self again to a chain, from whence so amiable is Providence hath delivered me? When I remember the little leisure that we have to think of God, and the necessity which enfor­ceth almost the best courages to abandon themselves to the world, I have no lesse re­pugnance to think of my former life, then obligation to amend the faults thereof. My Noble Sir, leave me here where I have no Jealousie to content, no Traytor to flye, nor any troublesom persons to defend my self from. But if I remain in a condi­tion, wherein I cannot acknowledg the affe­ction which you witnesse to have for Hir­landa, believe that you oblige an unable, and not an ungrateful person. I dare like­wise to assure you, that God taking care to recompence you at my request, you shal have more cause to blesse my little power, then reason to desire to change my fortune.’

The Knight de l'Olive was much trou­bled [Page 68]to bring the resolution of the Princess to the change which he proposed to her. Notwithstanding after he had excused the Duke of his credulity, upon this, that it is hard for a Husband to love with passion, and to love without jealousie, he present­ed unto her that the fault which he had done, and whereof he had a hundred times repented, would hold him hence­forward in distrust of all reports that might be made him. Besides, that being himself witnesse of a vertue which was disguised unto him; it would be as easie for him to reject the calumny, if it had impudence, as it would be hard for him to take the pretences. ‘[After all, Madam (added he) it is not so much your inte­rest to passe again into Bretany, as that of all your subjects: I omit notwith­standing that their happinesse depends of your conduct; and that never any one of your Domesticks shall come forth of his misery but by your meanes. Con­sider only what you owe to your Hus­band, and what you owe to your self. I believe that you are not ignorant that his safety depends partly on you, and that having charmes enough to hinder his debauches, you should be guilty of [Page 69]them, if you remove a remedy which can cure him of it. My zeal should ex­cuse the liberty which I take, to repre­sent unto you your duty. For that which concernes you, I think that no body can contradict me, if I assure that you can­not suffer longer the oppression of your Innocence, and that you will begin to be criminal, when you shall begin to op­pose your self to your justification. I should not care to perswade you to your return, if I foresaw it not glorious, and knew not that it is necessary for us.’

As our Cavalier had ended that last word, the good Princess drawing a deep sigh from her heart, said unto him,

‘Well, since you judg it so, I consent to be yet miserable. Go, and prosper: I see well that my God will have me to suffer, endeavour to place again the poor Hirlanda, where every day she shall be constrained to see and shew good countenance to the Murtherer of her child. I speak not of the honour which they endeavoured there to ravish from me: Innocent Victime, thy sole misfortune toucheth me, because thou livest no more.’

A few dayes after the Gentleman depar­ted [Page 70]to observe the time and meanes to ac­complish his designe: He was not long with Artus, but he took occasion to make him the Overture thereof. One day the Duke being at the Chase, as the Knight de l' Olive entertained him very much with the happinesse of his condition, and perceived that Artus was not of his opi­nion, and likewise that the Prince confes­sed to him that many things were wanting to his contentment. I think, added the Cavalier, that your Excellence could henceforth desire nothing which you en­joy not; but if any thing be wanting to your felicity, I suppose that it is a chaste Hirlanda. At this word, as if one had pierced the heart of Artus, he sent forth a sigh thence, which declared plainly e­nough that he had touched his inclina­tion.

My Cavalier (said he unto him) would to God that it was as easie for me to pos­sess her, as to desire her, I should then be­lieve my happinesse accomplished, and you should have cause to tell me, that I ought to be content. But if I cannot be perfect­ly happy but in the fruition of a good so perfect, I am sure never to live without displeasure, since I have no assurance ever [Page 71]to see Hirlanda again. Alas, how that cruel night which ravished her from me, hath given me disquiet ones! She is dead, my dear friend, and with her all my joyes are vanished. And though she lived, who knowes the place of her retrait? And if any one knew it, who could perswade her to come from thence? She should have goodnesse enough to forget, that I am culpable of all the evils which she endu­reth, and that my credulity hath made her fidelity to be doubted.

Sir, (replyed de l'Olive) it is rather your evil fortune, then your evil will, which gives cause to these displeasures. Though it touch a woman to see her selfe suspected, there is left her alwayes so much reason to penetrate, that the umbrage of a husband proceeds from the excesse, and not from the defect of his love; and that if he were but a little jealous, he would not be very ardent. I know well that the thought which clasheth the fidelity of a wife, suspects her Vertue, but also it wit­nesseth the esteem of her good qualities; so that Jealousie offends not so much the Vertue of a woman, as it forbids the Sur­prises of an envious person. I am assured that your Hirlanda is still yours, and that [Page 72]if she hath quitted your house, it is to conserve you the most precious of your goods against the malice of those who have endeavoured to destroy her [...] Doubt as little of her life, as of her affection: But if your Excellence please to command me to find her, I assure my self that you shall see within a few dayes both her love and her face.

Whilst the Cavalier held this Discourse, he kindled an ardent desire in the soul of Artus.

My Cavalier (replyed lie) I think it is to no purpose to dream of Hirlanda, but I can well protest, that if she lives, no body could render me a more acceptable service, then to perswade her to re­turne.

The Gentleman stayed no longer to o­pen himself to the Duke in all the particu­lars that hapned to him; he related unto him how he had found his dear Spouse in a disguised habit with one of his Aunts, where since her Quality was known, she received all the honours that were due unto her. From this time forward the face of Artus was wholly changed, there was seen there no other melarcholy, but that which the impatience to see the Dutchess, imprin­ted therein.

Scarce were they returned from the chase, but the Knight De l'Olive was commanded to pass again into Normandy to conduct his Mistresse. It is hard to expresse the regrets of Hirlanda, and of her good Hostesse, when they were to give the last adieu: nothing could sweeten their separation, but the promise to see one another in the Spring. So must it be granted that there are no delights compa­rable unto those of a life retired from the noise and crowd of the world. It is not in the dirt of towns that heaven sheds his dew, there is but the country which re­ceives those pure favours, and can tast them; it is there that God speaks to his Elect, that he entertains them familiarly; and to speak all in a word, it is there that he possesseth them without trouble. Our holy Princesse saw well what she lost, so witnessed shee it enough by her tears.

The Duke having understood that his wife was but a dayes journey from his house, he departed with a good number of Gentlemen to receive her with all the testimonies of a true and perfect good will. I will not tell you that there was a little confusion in the first salutation. Artus [Page 74]could not think of his too much credulity without-blushings, notwithstanding the transport of joy overcame all the other resentments of his soul. A thousand times he asked pardon of the Dutchess, protest­ing to her that the excess only of his affe­ction had been the cause of his errour. Hirlanda, who knew well that the forget­ting of injuries, was the proof of a good courage, gave to the Duke all the assu­rances that she could of having no remem­brance at all of what was pass'd; she sought likewise reasons to perswade him that he had not offended, to the end that he might not have cause to fear. I passe lightly this first interview, because it is impossible for me to express the ceremo­nies thereof; what I can say is only to assure that this happy day was like unto that of the Dukes nuptials; all the re­joycements thereof were renewed. A great number of Nobles came to the pal­lace of Artus to congratulate with him his good fortune, and with the Princess her happy return.

It seemed that so much joy could not suffer any sorrow in hearts so content; but alas, Hirlanda saw not her dear son! her grief was without consolation, because [Page 75]her evil was without remedy: the poor little one was dead both in the opinion of the father, who believ'd him smothered in his birth, and in that of the mother, who had some doubt of his shipwrack. Never cast she her eyes upon her child­bed, but all her trances renewed in her heart: if any one of the women which serv'd her formerly, presented themselves to her, one would have said that it was to advertise her to weep. Oftentimes she would retire her self all alone into that fa­tal chamber where her dear child had been ravished from her; and as she saw her self without witness, she afflicted her self without compassion. Hirlanda (said she) must thou live the remainder of thy dayes in a place where thou oughtest to die? Why did not those who snatch'd an infant from thee out of thy bowels, tear out also thy heart? would their pity be inhumane, and shew that vertue it self is criminall in a barbarous foule? Oh poor victime, how desirable would it have been unto me to expire with thee, if thou art dead; or to languish in thy company, if thou livest!

My Reader, you know well that the son of our Dutchesse is not yet dead, if [Page 76]there be not arrived to him some new accident, and more cruel then the former which assaulted him. I am much deceived, if I told you not that upon the point of his embarkment a troop of unknown people entred into the vessel, and seized upon the traitors that carried him away, as they would cast him into the sea. This order came from Gerard, uncle to the little one, who judg­ed this precaution necessary to the secret of his design; it is so, that an evil action may be assured, that it shall be soon or late recompensed, even by those that pro­fit by its malice, and that give the coun­sel thereof. But where have they condu­cted that band of criminals who without doubt fear to live, because they merit a rigorous punishment, and who desire yet to fear long, because they come to see death? It is that which I will tell you, my Reader, provided, you will permit me to instruct you with a thing which you shall confesse to be for my pur­pose.

St. Maloes, a Town of high Bretain, is at this day sufficiently known by that fa­mous garrison of dogs which keep it by night, whilst the floods of the sea which [Page 77]guard it the day, retire themselvs to leave them in faction. It is a part of that ter­ritorie, whose people are named Diublin­tres by Pliny, Caesar, and Strabo. But besides that, and the great traffick which it maintains, the Episcopal seat which John Bishop of Alethe transported there in the yeer 1172 makes it to pass for one of the considerable Towns of the Pro­vince: four miles from St. Maloes is the famous Town of Monfort, whose name is great enough in the history, by reason of the miracle or prodigie which hath been constantly observed there for the space of three or four ages, and where­of the last hath seen the end. It is enough to name the Duck of Monfort, to make all those of the country to remember, that every yeer a wilde Duck issuing out of the neighbouring Marsh came the first of May to the Church, where sometimes more then ten thousand persons conducted her in procession, and from whence she retired her self after the offering, leaving one of her twelve Ducklins to the Curate, for a monument of her natural piety. What love soever that bird had for her little ones, this losse was not considerable; for besides that she made a present unto [Page 78]God, there alwaies remained unto her a good number. But alas, the unfortu­nate Hirlanda loses her only one, and loses him for ever, since the sacred waters of baptism assure her not to see him again, nor ever to meet that dear moiety of her self. My reader, I would fain that these circumstances should design you the place where we are to find again our little Prince.

At the same time that the Nurse accom­panied with her husband, and some confi­dents of him that hath gained them, pre­pared their passage for England; God, who never forsaketh the innocent in affli­ction, thought of the means to take from them this precious infant. A vene­rable old man, named Bertrand, gover­ned at that time the Abby of St. Maloes, which since is changed into a Cathedral; scarce had this holy man taken his first sleep one night, but an Angel appeared unto him, and communded him from God to awake his servants presently, and to send them towards Alethe to stop fugitives which carried away a little boy who had not received baptism. The Abbot, who knew perfectly the voice of him whom he was to obey, called his [Page 79]brother, who reposed in another apart­ment, and with all the diligence that could be used, without incommodating himself, commanded him to execute what I have already insinuated. It was no hard thing for people resolv'd and well arm'd, to force five or six rogues, whom fear had more then half overcome; there was notwithstanding no more but the Nurse with her husband that was taken, holding in her arms that poor victime which she carried to death: the others were either slain in the defence, or saved themselvs in the darkness. Until then the Abbot knew nothing of our hi­story; but he learned of the Prisoners the birth of the child, and of the Angel the sad adventure which attended it in Eng­land. It is not to be doubted also, that God revealed unto him the conduct which he should take for the future in its edu­cation: though the good old man was touched with compassion, seeing the tears of the Nurse, who confessed not the truth but by constraint, he caused her to be put into a prison, where she soon lost her husband. This wicked woman, questio­ned about the parents of the child, feigned that as she walked in the road, a troop of [Page 80]thieves had carried them away.

The good Abbot could sufficiently con­vict her, both by the equipage of the little one, which was not conformable to those of her condition, and by her tears, which without doubt would not have ac­cused her good fortune.

How admirable is our great God in his sweet and secret providences! at the same time that our little stranger entred into the Monastery, the sister of Bertrand, who had a little girle at her brest, lost it, as if that innocent creature had not lived until that moment, but to keep her mothers milk for him. This death cau­sed her parents much displeasure; but the Abbot, who look'd upon this, accident as a particular disposition of heaven, had not much trouble to comfort them. Ha­ving caused his sister to be called, he said unto her,

‘My Daughter, you have lost your [...]hild, if it be to lose her to restore her unto him who gave her you; I blame not your tears, because they are just, provided, that they be not obstinate. Though God could take your goods without rendring you either accompt thereof or recompence, he is notwith­standing [Page 81]so good, that he would not take from you a daughter, without gi­ving you a boy in her place. Receive him from his hand by mine, and give me this proof of your amity, that you have no less care of his breeding, then if he were your son. Perhaps this abando­ned babe shall be the happiness of your House; and if God give you other children, this little miserable may be the cause of their good fortune. But though you should expect no other reward but from heaven; you have a motive just enough to do this good office to this Orphan, since I assure you from God, that he hath adopted him for son.’

As he had ended these few words, he put the little Bertrand into her arms: Berita (that was the name of this vertu­ous Gentlewoman) received him with no less respects then if God himself had charged her with him. But that which meriteth more consideration; she no sooner pressed him on her bosome, but he entred into her heart, having as much tenderness for him, as she should have re­sented for a son, of whom she should have been the true mother I am too hasty to tel [Page 82]you the name of our little one; for to speak truth, he had not yet any. It was but the third day after he was received, that the holy old man give him his, wil­ling that she whom he bad chosen him for Nurse, should hold him at the font with him. After the ceremony of the Baptism was finished, and that his God­mother had put her dear Nursling into his swadling cloaths, there happened a thing which drew tears from the good Abbot. Scarce had he that little Chri­stian in his arms, but he opened his little eyes, and then holding them fixedly set­led upon the venerable face of Bererand, he betook himself to smile, but in a man­ner so natural and orderly, that one would have judged that he thanked him for his charities. The Saint knew well that children begin to laugh at the seventh day of their birth, and therefore this little Prince being of that term, was to give the same signs which are ordinary to those of his age. Notwithstanding, he would rather believe that this laughter was an effect of Grace, then a motion of Nature, and that he expressed himself rather Christian then Man by this miraculous joy. There was no body there that grew [Page 83]not tender, seeing the good old man to weep as abundantly upon that child, as if he were to baptize him again with his tears. He spake unto it so many things as was sufficient to make one swoun with tenderness, but he spake not enough to make himself comprehended of any other but of his brother, to whom alone he had discovered all his secret. His wisedome made him to judg that he must keep secret what Heaven had revealed but to him. Let us withdraw us from our little Prince, no ill things can arrive unto him, since God interests himself in his preservation. We cannot divine all that which passed in this retreat, but it is to be presumed, that the Abbot who had received that infant from the hands of the Divine providence, and put him into the bosom of his own sister, would not neglect the breeding of it. We will leave him under so good and charitable a Master; whilst we visit his Mother.

My Reader, I am assured if you look upon but the apparence and outside of Hirlanda's fortune, that you will be­lieve it now happy: all the world indea­vours with complacence to content her, and no body is so rash to contradict her [Page 84]wil. Artus, who was the most concern'd in that she should live content, gave her every day new proofs of his affection; he was ravished when he could discover any thing which might please his wife; so that he gave her in this last usage where­with to judg, that if she had been perse­cuted, he had been deceived. There was not any, even to the greatest enemy of his repose, that would not perswade her that he had passion to serve her. You com­prehend well that I mean Gerard, author of all the tempest, which the vertuous Princess is coming to sustain. When she returned unto Bretany, this young Lord was not there, that was it which gave him cause to dispatch unto her a Gentle­man in post, to assure her, that if some indisposition had not constrained him to keep his bed, he had been himself the mes­senger of his joy: this evil brother in law feigned to bear a good part in the dome­stick rejoycement; notwithstanding it is certain that his complement was but the pretence which he took, to make known the spirit of his brother, and of his sister. It sufficeth me to insert here one of his letters, not to serve for ill ex­ample to hypocrisie, but to give a pre­caution [Page 85]against the surprises of his malice. My Reader, you know sufficiently the heart of Gerard; judg, I pray you, of his words.

Madam, as soon as I had the newes of your happy return, I protest unto you that my soul, which had alwaies been sad for your retreat, was seized with so sudden and sensible a joy, that it was as hard for me to regulate it then, as it is difficult for me to express it now. And really, though I had no interest in the contentments of my Lord the Duke, and that you were unto me a person in­different, it is enough to know your ver­tue, to congratulate your prosperities. God who sees the bottom of my heart, knowes that I have no other thought, and that as there is no man in the world that honoureth your merit more then I, there is not any one that participates more in your joy. I speak this unto you, not to make you believe that I should be in the rank which I have touched, but to oblige you to comprehend, that, being brother as I am, I am ravished as I ought. Besides the general reason which obligeth all honest people to cherish the happy success of vertue; and [Page 86]the particular which comes unto me from alliance, I have a proper motive to like the glory which heaven giveth unto yours. I will freely confess unto you, that the fear which I had lest the indiscretion of my zeal might have given some subject to your flight, held me in inquietude at your return, and that I apprehended, you would believe me an artificial enemy, for having endeavou­red to be a faithful servant. My rea­son represented to me unprofitably, that you would judg that the emotion which I expressed upon the accident of your lying in, was a proof that I desired passionately the happy issue of it. I apprehended alwaies that some evil spirit would disguise my carriage unto you, to the prejudice of my affection; now that you are in condition to hear from my mouth the protestations of my fidelity, I would, if you are the object of my imprudence, that you would be also the judg thereof. There is no pu­nishment which I find not sweet, pro­vided, that my trouble might be compa­tible with your amity; and that in suffe­ring the punishment which you shall ordain me, I comfort my self with the [Page 87]good will wherewith I desire that you should honour me. My friends will make you to see that there is as little artifice in my former actions, as deceit in my words, and you will acknowledg, Madam, that I cannot be so criminal and bold, as to approach you, after having offended you. My fever augments the ardour which presseth me to come to render you my devoirs. Adieu, Ma­dam, I am as I have alwaies been,

Your faithful humble servant. GERARD.

Oh traitor! If the service pass'd which thou hast rendred to that innocent Prin­cess, must serve for a model unto those which she is to expect from thee for the future; tell her rather that she hath cause to make provision of patience to suffer thy malice, then to assure her self of thy good will. As the Gentleman that Gerard sent, returned, and had understood that his Master might come without danger to salute his brother and sister in law, he departed from the place of his abode, and came unto their house; his arrivul was a new motive of joy to the Duke and Dutchess: he had not penetrated the ma­licious [Page 88]design of Gerard, and she dissem­bled it with much wisedom and pleasure. There is no contentment like that to overcome a just anger: at the same time that we stop the sallies thereof, we taste the delights of a triumph. Hirlanda had the experience of these sweetnesses, there­fore it was that she had not much trouble to keep her self in the practice of so com­mendable a constraint. Gerard failed not of his side to render her all the compla­cencies of a very discreet person, and all the services of a very passionate friend. So that the Princess contributing to her errour through her proper goodness, and her brother by his fine policies, she was not much troubled to lose her former sentiments, and to believe that Gerard had no less true affection, then he seemed to make sincere protestations. But alas, how innocence sometimes brings her self to the disposition of her ruine; and how often would she be safe, if she were a little di­strustful! Poor Hialanda, why make you not use of the experience of what hath pass'd, to secure you from the evil which may arrive unto you? It is not to offend the vertue of another, but to use ones own well; if you had a little less confi­dence, [Page 89]you should have much more good fortune. Why indeavour we to give sus­pitions and fears to our vertuous Lady? her sweetness, her modesty, her affability, and her innocence are defences good e­nough against the assaults of malice and of envy. Let us permit our Princess to enjoy, repose and delights, of which mis-fortune would have deprived her so long time.

The History observes that the Duke and Dutchess lived together in perfect intelli­gence the space of seven years: God never fails to do us as much good as evil in this life, to the end that this mixture may moderate our joyes, and comfort our displeasures. It is not that he inten­deth to give us the recompence of our vertue, but rather a motive to hold fast in its painful combats. His great reward attends us in heaven; in which certainly we have an illustrious testimony of the wisedom of our Soveraign, who will not that we should possess much wealth, whilst we have need of a Gardian. In the course of this sweet life, the Dutchess was brought to bed of a Daughter, which caused sensible joyes to her husband: notwithstanding, Hirlanda was but half [Page 90]content, because he had but the moiety of his desire. The sum of her wishes was to possesse a son, to the end to sustaine his House, and to carry his name to Posterity. But alas, how little men know that which they should, they ask sometimes children of God, and they find that they are Vi­pers which tear out their bowels, either with their persecution, or with their cares.

Poor Hirlanda, have you not in your former. Child-bed wherewith to oblige you not to desire a second? Is it not e­nough to lose a son, without losing al­so a daughter, and with her, honour and life?

Gerard seeing that the succession of his Brother went from him by the birth of this Heiresse, he attempted to render the Conception thereof suspected, and to de­ceive the spirit of his brother, as he had already done before. Notwithstanding he would carry himself more cunningly then at first, endeavouring to cover his evil de­sign with some good pretence He go­verned himself with so much artifice, that one would have thought him Protector of her whom he intended to destroy. Be­hold how he began to contrive his plot.

Being one day with his Brother in a Garden belonging to the Castle, as he perceived that his spirit laboure'd with some melancholy, he fained to be much troubled thereat. Sir, (said he unto him) I wonder to see you sad in the common joy of your House, and that you should be the only one that participates not in the good fortune of your Family. What is want­ing to your contentments, now that heaven hath blessed your Marriage? Really (re­plyed Artus) you have hit it the [...]e, and found out wherewith to comfort me; you could not better tell me, that I have a most just cause to afflict me, then to say, that I am the father of a daughter. I have a great Obligation to Hirlanda fo [...] this fair present that she gives me to sustaine so strongly my house.

My Reader, Judge of the goodnesse of this spirit, who makes his wife [...]riminial for having not brought a Son into the world. Must she not be at least a God­desse, to content his humour? [...]ince the Patriark Jacob answered Rachel, That he was not God to give her children. I find that the plaint of our Duke is more extra­vagant, then that of this good Lady; for if it be true, that the fathers contribute [Page 92]more to the birth of their Heirs then the mothers, Artus is more culpable then Hirlanda. Behold notwithstanding the murmur of many fantastick husbands, who take occasion to persecute, or at least to frowne upon their wives, because they have no children, or not such as they desire with passion.

Our evil brother had no mind to repre­sent this to the Duke, he contented him­self to make an answer, which indeed char­ged not the Princesse, but left her in suspi­cion to have voluntarily contributed to this defect, through the austerities and penitencies which weaken nature. Not­withstanding (added he) we should not blame a person, when she offends but through too much zeal; otherwise it would be sometimes a crime to have vertue.

Behold Gerard Philosopher and Preach­er: see him now Cheater and Slanderer. A while after as he perceived that his brother continued his coldnesse, he visi­ted his sister in Law, and counselled her to render her self more complacent to the hu­mours of Artus, disclosing unto her the cause of his change. It is not to be doub­ted but the honest caresses of a wife can do [Page 93]much upon the spirit of a Husband; but if he be savage and capricious, they provoke him more then they gain him. It is that which Gerard intended, and which he ob­tained, because that the Duke being of a fierce nature, the more tenderness Hirlanda expressed to him, the more he despised her. Besides, he began to believe that there was artifice in these Testimonies of love, and that she intended rather to de­ceive him, then to pacifie him.

This umbrage was strongly upheld by an accident which hapned one day to the Prince in the beginning of his dinner: for as he opened his napkin, he found therein a note, wherein there was but these words, Take heed of a flattering woman. I will not tell you who was the Author of this device; but I can assure you that it forwarded very much the Designe of Ge­rard, which was to render the Dutchesse suspected to her Husband. Since this fatal day he spake not one reasonable word to Hirlanda; when he met her, it was but to do her injury.

Unfortunate Princesse! your disaster toucheth you sensibly, I doubt not of it; since it deserves the tears of all the world, I consent that you should lament. No, [Page 94]no Hirlanda weep not, it is better that Vertue command with you then Impati­ence: but if you cannot deny your tears to your griefe, I conjure you to make provision of them for another time.

Without doubt it is not hard to judge, that our brother in Law was in too good a way to stop himself; his Artifice had too much successe to quit the match, upon the point to gain it. His familiar spirit sug­gested him the means, which he had not yet imployed.

I have not yet told you, that the Duke had in his neighbourhood a Cavalier who was redoubtable to the whole Province: the advantages which he had had in many Encounters, gave him the heart to fear no­thing. Notwithstanding I can scarce be­lieve that he was perfectly courageous, see­ing he was a Traytor. Gerard thought it fit to gain this man to destroy his sister; he tryed all that which he judged would corrupt him; but it was no hard matter to acquire a man, who was for every one that sought an opportunity to do evil. Behold then the resolution taken to put Artus in distrust of his wife, see the conduct there­of.

After that this dangerous spirit had sounded the Dukes, and found disposition enough in his soul to receive a calumny, he took a time one day to speak unto him in these termes.

‘My Lord, if I had not more passion for your glory then prudence to dissem­ble your injuries, I might be blamed for the il service, which I am notwithstanding obliged to render you. I would the re­port which runs through the Province were false, it is too common to conceal it from you; if your Excellence please to give me leave to discover to you what I know thereof, I will avouch nothing which I will not maintain at the peril of my life. I believe, my Lord, that you are not ignorant what is spoken openly of the privacies of my Lady with the Lord de l'Olive. It is not but since to day that he ought to be suspected of you, since all his life hath been but a continual plot to ruine her. Whilst your Excellence was absent, he never was from her; when she was away, he kept her by one of his Aunts; now that you have begun to discover their practi­ces, he flies your Court, either to avoid his punishment, or to dissipate your sus­pitions. [Page 96]I doubt not but one might say more thereof, if it were not better to give you only this advice by precaution, then to enlighten you too much by a truth so odious.’

The Traitor ended here, but to pro­voke more and more the curiosity of the Duke, who failed not to press him to instruct him with the rest.

‘It is not without constraint that I am to finish: but since you will have it so, I must tell you against my will, that no bo­dy believes that ever you were father. Would to God that I had not seen those privaces, which made me to know him that contributeth truely to the birth of the Dutchesse children. I should be without doubt more discreet, then to speak unto you of it, if I were not the most ardent, as the most obliged to serve you. But since all the world knowes this disgrace, it would be to love your shame, to conceal it from him a­lone that can easily find a remedy for it. I am perswaded that your Excellence wil approve my fidelity without my preten­ding to a recompence for it; since I am resolved to give you this testimony thereof, to expose my life to defend your [Page 97]honour, and to maintaine my word both together.’

Good God, what a strange monster is calumny! But what an unpitiful fury is jealousie! How powerful is she when she meets with a feeble spirit!

The first effect of the Imposture of this Traytor was, that the Duke caused to be taken away from Hirlanda her little daughter.

This Vertuous Princess was in her A­partment, when a troop of Servants cast themselves without respect into her Cham­ber, she held her poor little Innocent in her armes, when the most insolent of these Rascals snatched it from her by force.

My Reader, I assure you that Hirlanda wept not, because that the violence of her grief seized so that desolate Mother, that she was rather as one dead▪ then as one afflicted. But scarce was she come to the liberty of knowing her self, but she be­gan plaints and regrets, which would have touched the soul of a Barbarian. But Artus had not even the heart of such a one; never would he suffer that the Dut­chess should cast her self at his feet to im­plore his justice.

Poor Hirlanda, I have nothing to say [Page 98]unto you in this extremity, which surpri­seth my spirit as well as yours, if not that you must resolve to dye, and to live in In­nocence I care not to speak unto you now of a Providence, which seems to abandon you. Suffer then at least, since it is inevitable, suffer since it is neces­sary.

In the horrible confusion which began to trouble that little Court, Artus caused his brother to be called, to communicate unto him his displeasure, and to take his advice of what he ought to do in this dan­gerous conjuncture. Gerard, who knew well that the Duke was carried enough of himselfe unto violence, feigned at first to represse the sallies thereof; but it was on­ly to the end to assure the death of the Princess, and the better to cover his base Treachery. Perfidious, believest thou that all the world is blind, and that no body hath eyes good enough to penetrate into thy malice! He said unto him first, that one should do nothing rashly in an affaire of such importance; that jealousie ought to be suspected when it hath to do with the honour of a woman, whose most criminal Liberties merit death; that though the disloyalty of the Dutchess should be true, [Page 99]one ought to take heed that her punish­ment might not be unadvised; that his Excellence had meanes to be cleared upon this point, without putting himself to the hazard of condemning an Innocent; that he should give this glory of not revenging an injury before seeing it judged. And then who would dare to assure that he who appeacheth the Crime, hath not in­vented it? Since he presents himselfe to the combat to maintain his deposition, I think that one cannot justly refuse her par­ty, to produce some one for her defence. If she be innocent, she should not be op­pressed, if she be guilty, you need not fear that heaven will favour her malice.

My Reader, you comprehend sufficient­ly that Gerard would not be so just, if he believed not the ruine of his sister infallible, and that if he doubted the successe of the combat, he would not tempt the peril thereof. Moreover, he would not that he should be thought to be sullyed with the blame of a murther, which he promised himself to perform with praise.

Great God, permit me to ask of thee, where is that Providence which watcheth over the actions of men, and glories to support the Innocent? Since thou forsa­kest [Page 100]our Princesse, and that I cannot doubt of thy equity, Hirlanda is culpable; so see I that poor Lady whom they drag to a prison. Providence of my God! is it there that you would have her? Alas! what a great mercy would you have done her, to leave her to dye in the woods, or to live in servitude! her end being not shameful, would have been sweet unto her, and her languishment supportable.

Whilst the Dutchesse expected, either the punishment which should dispatch her, or a miracle to save her, permit, after ha­ving taken leave of her, that we consider the apparel of her judgment.

It is now, poor Princesse, that I permit you to weep; I would not that you should look upon your death nor your childrens to excite your tears. Cast only your eyes upon the sad furniture of your chamber, call the servants which are by you; this spectacle is lamentable e­nough to merit all your sighs and your re­grets.

But what! Will they condemn Hirlan­da upon the deposition of a Traytor! Shal it not be allowed her to reproach this false witness, or to prove her innocence? O how desirable would it have been to [Page 101]our vertuous Criminal, since she could not expect any sweetnesse from her Husband, to live in the rigour of the Old Law, where only Adulterers dyed! If any jealous person suspected his wife of disloyalty, he led her to the Temple of Jerusalem, where the High Priest presented her those bitter waters, which Moses describes in the fifth Chapter of Numbers. If she were guilty and had the boldnesse to drink thereof, she burst presently asunder; God giving to a lit­tle water and dust gathered from the Ta­bernacle, the power to putrifie her belly, and to do the same evil to her Accom­plice, if we believe the Rabbins. On the contrary, those that were accused falsely, were cured of all kinds of Diseases, ob­taining a Male child at the end of nine months, if their marriages had been barren until then.

Poor Hirlanda, you had bitter waters enough, since your eyes were two living sources of tears; but alas! they could not justifie you to a Barbarian, who had no ju­stice for you.

I know not if this proof of the Jewes introduced not amongst our Ancestors the custome of purging themselves of the Crimes which were imposed on them by [Page 102]boiling water; a hand pure from vice came forth from thence fairer. Our an­cient Gauls took not alwayes the pains to heat the water, but stripping those whom they could not convict, they cast them tyed hand and foot into a Lake or River, stretch'd upon a Buckler or a Crosse; when the water bare up their body without let­ting it sink, it approved their vertue. Charlemaine considering that a Criminal was sometimes more light then an Inno­cent, forbad that Innocence should longer be so weighed. Perhaps he would not also that that glorious tree which had born Je­sus Christ, should serve for punishment to the wicked.

The most ordinary justification was made by the meanes of hot iron, which was a culter or share of a Plough. One of our greatest Kings ordained, that there should be nine of them set in a rank, upon which they were to march bare foot without burning themselves. The History of Almania reports, that Cunegonda proved her Chastity to Henry the second her husband in this manner; and ours saith, that Lewis King of Ger­many, Nephew to our Charles the Bald, deputed him thirty men, of which twen­ty [Page 103]should make the trial of the cold and hot water, and the other ten of the burning iron.

Moreover we ought not to forget in this observation the custome of justifying ones selfe by oath upon the bodies of the Saints, Saint Denis, Germain and Mar­tin. Much more all our Antiquity reve­renced so religiously the person of Pepin the Short, that they would swear solemnly upon his cloathes, presuming that he who had the boldness to approach that Royal Purple, could not be sullied with Crime.

The most unjust proof of Innocence or of Crime, was that of Duel, so many times forbidden, and so many times pra­ctised. The first prohihition thereof, which was made at the Council of Valence in the reigne of Lotharius, brought ex­communication to the Conquerour, and privation of burial to the Conquered It is not unfit to represent here, the forme of these combats, to make knowne the inju­stice of them. When a Crime worthy of death could not be proved true, nor con­victed as false, the Informer presented the Combat man to man, and the Accused threw downe the gage of Battle, which the Judg received after the exposition of [Page 104]the Crime, ordaining imprisonment, both to the one and the other, until the day of their Duel. The time come, they were brought into a close field before noone lightly, armed at the cost of the High Ju­stice; their haire was cut round about their eares, leaving to their choice the li­berty to annoint themselves, to the end to be more supple. Four Knights guarded the field, where the Champions were no sooner entered, holding one another by the hand, but they put themselves on their knees with a reciprocal protestation, that nothing of the world but the right of their cause, obliged them to try the chance of Armes. After the profession of their Faith, and the assurance which they gave not to use Sorcery, the Accused said unto him, Man whom I hold, I am innocent of such a Crime. To which the other answer­ed, calling him by his name, N. Thou lyest. After this faire Complement, the Marshals gave them Armes, and the He­ralds cryed, Let them go in the Kings name. If the Accused remained dead on the place, he was to be hanged on a Gib­bet; if he resisted until the night, he was declared Victorious.

Behold the Ceremonies which were ob­served [Page 105]as well on foot as a horse back: from whence it is easie to comprehend, God being not obliged to work miracles, that there is nothing lesse equitable, then these ridiculous and fatal Duels. For be­sides that for the most part an unfortunate vertue is abandoned of succour, it hapned often enough that an unjust Accuser had better successe then a weak Innocent, be­cause he had more strength and skil. And therefore I do not wonder that the Church had darted all her Thunder-bolts against the brutish customes which expose the me­rit of good men to the punishments of the wicked; and that our Monarks, in whose Courts principally this madness was in vi­gour, have armed the Lawes to the ruine of these publick ruines.

But alas, poor Hirlanda! Though you be innocent, you must either perish with­out defence, or defend your self without force; if your merit hath no support, there will be no safety.

Whilst the Duke and his Ministers im­ployed themselves to seek out a death for our holy Princess, she disposed her self to receive it Christianly. It must be confes­sed neverthelesse, that the conformity which she had to the just will of her God [Page 106]hindred her not to complain of her evils. And to speak truly, if ever a Patience hath found any cause to be grieved, judge you not that it is that of our unfortunate Dut­chesse! Count, I pray you, all the good moments of her fortune, scarce will you see there one day entirely happy. She enter­ed not into her Husbands house, but she met there a brother in Law, who made her lose honour and repose. Remaines your heart insensible after having considered a woman of that condition, to wander all a­lone in the woods, and to live in the dens; to conserve there a life which she could desire to lose? In your opinion is it not a spectacle worthy of all the pity of good souls to see a Princesse keep the Cowes, and to imploy her selfe about the sheep? Formerly some Christian Ladies have bean condemned to the Stable. and to the ba­seft Offices of a house; but those were not their husbands that constrained them to live in this basenesse. The Motive which caused their contempt, and the condition of the persons, which ordained their tor­ment, consolated all the bitternesse of their fortune. It is a pleasure to suffer of the Herods and Neroes; but to have Ar­tus for Tyrant, it is to speak truly, to [Page 107]have wherewith to deplore. Could you not say that God takes pleasure to de­ceive our innocent Princess? After that Custome had rendred her banishment light, and that she felt no more her evils, by reason of the long habitude of her fufferance, he sent her a Cavalier to con­duct her into a prison, where she should meet with new griefs.

Let us seek in the life of Hirlanda, the cause of her disgraces, let us seek in Hirlan­da her self: we shall find her life all pure, and all holy, and Hirlanda in a prison: whilst a thousand persons of her birth live in delights, she languisheth in necessity. All these considerations representing themselves to the spirit of our prisoner, it was impossible for her not to deplore her condition.

One day the woman that served her, being entred into her chamber, where for a sumptuous couch, cloth of Estare, and Ballisters, there was but an old straw bed, she could not chuse but sigh. Hir­landa wondred at it, because they had chosen her this old woman, as the cruel­est of all the furies which they could give her; this extraordinary sentiment obliged her to inform her self of the cause of her [Page 108]sorrow. Madam (replied that woman) it is hard for me to command my tears, when I think of your miseries; notwith­standing, I have alwaies suppressed the grief thereof whilst I believ'd the relief, but now that I see you at the point of your death, I lose my constancy in losing my hope. My Reader, permit me to inter­rupt this sorrowful discourse, to ask you what you think of the answer of our Prin­cess: I assure me that you will pardon her, if this newes put some little trouble into her soul, and if the fear of a punish­ment as shameful as unjust made her change countenance: you comprehend not well the anguish of her imprisonment, nor the excess of her ordinary griefs, if you judg that this newes afflicted her; you know not that there was no death which would not be more sweet then her life, if you believe that the assurance to die, comforted her not. My good friend (said she unto her) I see well that my good fortune offendeth you, since you are troubled at a thing which rejoyceth me: is it not a great good to depart out of prison, and to depart thence with assu­rance never to come there again? Perhaps the grave is more fearful then this prison, [Page 109]I should believe it, if one were sensible there, and that its worms were more trou­blesome then this misery which consumes me. But yet of what death must I finish? Madam (answered she) they prepare the wood-pile, where you are to expire, in case there be no person that will defend your honour in taking away your accu­sers life. All things are already prepared, but not one of those that run to this spe­ctacle, presents himself to succour you. She asked her further if the Lord de l'Olive were not in the country; that was the Cavalier in whom she had all the remains of her confidence; and as she understood his absence, she prayed that Governess to cause a Priest to come unto her to pre­pare her self unto death by the Sacraments, which are the buds of the true life, and the seed of immortality. She could not refuse her that consolation, which she en­joyed as long as possibly she could, because she passed the best part of the day with a good religious man whom they had sent her. All the night of that fatal morning which was to see her martyrdome, was imployed in entertaining her self with God, into whose hands she consigned a thousand times her life and honour. Of [Page 110]all the circumstances of her death, no­thing afflicted her but the examen of her honesty, which was put over to the for­tune of arms.

Never notwithstanding did this coura­gious Princess let forth one sole tear, nor sigh; on the contrary, imagining with her self that she was going to see again her poor children, she felt a joy, whose transports she was troubled to moderate: Yes, (cryed she out) I shall soon see you, innocent victimes. But that thought gave her not pleasure long, nor her vertue constancy, because it made her to remem­ber that these two little creatures had been the innocent cause of her troubles and dishonours. Then opening her eyes unto tears, and her mouth to regrets, she spake thus to her amiable Master: My God, I complain not to dye unfortunate; I am grieved only to die infamous; I de­mand not that thou should'st give me life, I desire that thou would'st conserve my reputation. Alas! must I, for being born in a great fortune, and for having possessed wealth; lose honour? oh how much more desirable had it been to me to be born in a country village, and to live in the incommodities of a strait poverty, [Page 111]then to see me raised to serve as a butt unto evil fortune! At least, my pitifull Master, why wouldst thou not leave me in those woods where the first accident of my marriage had cast me? I should have found there the trees and rocks sensible to my plaints, and the Ecchoes would have expressed my grief to sweeten me the sharpness thereof. What consolation were it, my amiable Saviour, to live the rest of my dayes in shadow and obscurity! but it was too great a favour for a Prin­cess, whom thou wouldst render more miserable then a country woman. Thou must see Hirlanda die in reproach, to see her with contentment. And well, my God, since thou ordain'st it, I consent thereunto, protesting, that nothing is more agreeable unto me, then that which is grievous to me: provided, that I suffer with thy approbation, and in thy orders, I shall not suffer against my will. Let us die, Hirlanda, let us die, since we can live no more; let us die, since we live but by halfes: thy poor children are no more in the world, why wouldst thou remain there?

Our generous Princess pass'd almost the whole night in these sentiments, [Page 112]which seemed to balance her soul between the fear, and the desire of death: not­withstanding any repugnance which she had to die without justification, she con­fented at last to lose as well the esteem of men, as her life. The break of day scarce appeared yet, but every one disposed himself to this spectacle, the event where­of all the world feared and desired. To see the consternation of the whole town, one would have judged that Rennes. prepa­red it self for the funerals of all her inha­bitants (this place was chosen to render the action more celebrious). There was erected a great theatre for the Court, in a place which was found then the most ca­pable of that sad ceremony; aside of that was to be seen one lesser, which by the apparel thereof, one would judge to be that of the poor Hirlanda. A black cloth reaching even to the ground covered it, a chair of velvet, two or three seats of the same colour made up the fatal furniture of this scaffold. In the midst of the theatre was placed a table in form of an Altar, to lay there a crucifix enveloped with a cipress, as with a sad cloud which presag'd but misfortune to all the Assembly. The Heaven extraordinarily charg'd, seemed [Page 113]to be willing that this execution should be done in the night, so little light gave the Sun. There was at the foot of the scaffold a great number of faggots, all ready to take fire; in a word, there wan­ted no more but the poor Dutchess upon the pile, to make the most pitiful spectacle that ever History hath represent­ed unto us.

My dear reader, if you have your eyes full of tears, I conjure you to dry them, to contemplate that Nobility which ap­peared rather to be upon that great Theatre to dye, then to see. Behold, I pray you, that Lady which approacheth, you judg well that it is the deplorable Hirlanda, whom they lead to punishment; her long mourning robe; the vail which covers her face, and of all sides descends even to her girdle, denotes, that it is she her self; at least they tell me, that this equipage was that of the Adulterers a­mongst the Ancients. O God! How comes it that this word is slip'd from my pen, since it hath more cruelty for the heart of my Princess then death it self I Providence of my God, is it there then that you conduct a crowned head; which hath no other crime but its [...]-fortune, [Page 114]and which perhaps might live in honour, if it could live in impiety? Is it so then that you take pleasure to afflict those that adore you? have you but racks and pu­nishments for those that should expect your recompences? If your thunder-bolts seek Criminals, behold them upon the Throne which brave your power; behold them in the Lists, who provoke all your vengeances. Gerard and his false witness, deserve they that you should spare their lives? With what service have they ever honoured you? Perhaps there is but the massacre of Lambs that pleaseth you, and that you suffer willingly the Tigers and Bears to tear your faithful servants. My God, I will never think it, since thou art good, I will alwaies believe the contrary, since thou art just.

Yet I see not any person that presents himself for the defence of Hirlanda, and though even compassion of her evil should raise her up some Champion, it would be only to die for company. Her atlversary hath too much experience of his forces, to hazard himself in a combat, whose suc­cess should be doubtful. This Traitor mounted a great black horse; his Livery was of a changeable taffats, and his shield [Page 115]bare in a sable field a Golden Dragon arm'd and languid, which devoured a sheep Argent, with this device, Without mercy. Seems it not unto you that all this apparel denotes the lamentable presages of the death of our unfortunate Princess? Who sees not in this dragon, and in the feeble animal which he devours, Gerard and his sister in law? Let us not be so rash as to accuse heaven of hardness, never sees he our miseries without pity; but if he retards sometimes his assistance, it is but to make us know the need thereof, and to adore the miracle.

As the trumpet sounded for the last time, and that every one look'd upon Hirlanda's pile, a Champion appeared at the end of the lists, who cleft the press to enter there.

The Dutchess, who was half dead, began to be insensible to all kind of motions; but those who had pity yet in their souls, conceived some good hope, when they saw that God sent her succour. Some there were that believed, that it was the Guardian Angel of the Princess, others would have it to be the Lord de l'Olive. All these names were of good Augury; but whosoever it was, it is certain that [Page 116]there was good reason to think that it was her Tutelar. His Courser white as snow; his Livery green, sow'd with cares of gold; his Ermine Argent in a field of Sinople; and the soul of his device, Nothing sullies me, signified the hope of the Spectators, the cares of the Cavalier, and the innocence of the poor Lady. Notwithstanding, there was no body that despaired not of the happy success of the combat, when they saw a young child, who appeared to have more force in the attractions of his face, then in the nerves of his arms. His grace and his dexterity to manage his horse, begat some feeble ray of confidence, but his age yet too ten­der, dissipated it. My Reader, take heed that you have not the fears of that sor­rowful assembly: remember that David was young and delicate, Goliah robustious and dreadful.

As our Cavalier advanced himself, and had rendred his devoirs to the Duke, and to all the Nobles that accompanied him, he demanded if there was any one there so wicked as to accuse the chast Hirlanda: Young man (said his Adversary unto him) you are ill instructed with the life of that woman, if you judg her such. My [Page 117]Reader, perinit me to disguise unto you so the injurious answer that he made, I feared that you would not be touched with so sensible a displeasure as our Cham­pion, who endeavoured to turn back those ill words with a box, and the Lie. But he must imploy ruder arms; so the sound of the trumpet, and the generous fury of the horses carried them to the combat. Their first course was so strong, that it carried the traitor half out of the saddle, and the young Cavalier wholly. This accident afflicted all those who wish­ed him a happy fortune, and gave occasi­on to his Adversary to alight to pierce him with his sword; but scarce was he off before he saw him again in his saddle al­most as soon as fallen. He judged well that the time which he should take to re­mount a horseback, would give this young man leisure to hurt him in exposing him­self to his stroak; behold therefore rally­ing all the strength that he had, he endea­voured to fight him with equal forces, in killing his horse. Great God, forget not that it is thou that fightest for inno­cence, and that thou canst not abandon this young Prince without making it believ'd that thou wilt despise the merit [Page 118]of vertue. Our Goliah having then stretch'd out his full arm, plunged his sword so deeply into the shoulder of his enemies horse, that whatsoever indeavour he used, he could not draw it out again. That which the wisedome of the flesh had suggested him to the ruine of another, succeeded to his own; for his Adversary leaping off, gave him a mortal thrust under the gorget. The joyful cry which was raised in the Assembly, made it to be comprehended that every one liv'd with the death of this Traitor: that which rested to him of life, was but to curse his misfortune, and to declare the Innocence of the Princess. Artus himself wept for joy of it; for though a husband be asha­med to have lightly suspected his wife of little faith, he is ravished to see himself deceived by the jealousie: there is no man so stupid, that would appear just, by the conviction of a crime which caused his umbrages; in this point we love better to be judged suspicious then reasonable.

Here black thoughts, here criminall distrusts come to acknowledg in this event, that your murmurs have rashly assaulted the divine Providence; come [Page 119]to render homage to those secret conducts which are hidden to us but to be adore­able to us. As soon as the Heralds had received the last word of the Traitor, they went to take the Conqueror to present him to the Dutchess. My Reader, I think that you have long desired to know this Cavalier: you have the sentiment of all that famous Assembly of our good Princess, who desires with passion to speak to him. O spectacle of love and joy! At the instant that our Champion approached the scaffold of the Innocent, she had some thought that the Conque­rours Ermine was a work of her hands; the stuffe and fashion rather of the inve­lope of an Infant, then of the Livery of a Knight, propped well her belief. Lastly, as he put himself on his knees before the Dutchess, he declared unto her his name, his birth, and his quality: Madam, (said he unto her) behold that unfortu­nate son which hath caused you so many griefs; but most fortunate, since God makes him to day Protector of her that brought him into the world. Let his goodness take away my life when it shall please him, it troubles me no more to dy, since you live by the means of him, who [Page 120]was almost seen to be the innocent cause of your ruin. I know not if the poor Hirlanda believed the words of the little Bertrand, or rather, the assurances which love gave to her heart, of the truth of his adventures. Howsoever it was, she re­plied not unto this discourse but with tender tears, which flowed from her eyes so abundantly, that she could scarce see him whom she held embraced. Oh God! what sweetness is there to taste a pleasure, when it comes contrary to our expecta­tion!

Artus, who saw all the caresses of his wife, without knowing the mo­tive of them, believed at first that these demonstrations of good will were testimonies of gratitude. Notwith­standing hee could not believe, that she who had so many reasons to appear modest and staid, should leave her self loose unto privacies which pass'd the de­voirs of a reasonable acknowledgment, between persons of different sexes. Poor Artus, if thou knewst thy good fortune! As the Duke was in this astonishment, Hirlanda presented him her Champion, and said unto him only these three words, Sir, Behold your Son. Really, I admire [Page 121]not that he wanted words, since all great joyes are mute, as well as excessive griefs. When one resents lively a passion, there is much trouble to express it. Artus being out of his most deep extasies, beheld that face which he had never seen, and which he believed nevertheless to know. All the world would have sworn that it was the Dutchesses, if one and the same person could have two of them. Those who penetrate a little the secrets of Na­ture, do know that it is the mark of a legi­timate birth in the children, when the sons resemble the mothers, and the daugh­ters the fathers. These are glorious ig­norances to some persons, since it is un­profitable, and likewise dangerous to comprehend things, which may in cleer­ing the understanding, corrupt the heart.

Whilst that the Duke and Dutchess were in the examen and admiration of the wonders which passed before their eyes, Bertrand Abbot of St. Maloes, who had been spectator of the combat with the rest of the Nobless, advanced himself to­wards them, to instruct and assure them of a truth, which they came only to know. After he related unto them how he recei­ved [Page 122]their child, upon the point to be car­ried away into England, he told them, that by the commandment of God he had arm'd that little Prince to defend her that was accused for his birth, and for his murther. He forgat not to add, that the Angel which declared unto him what heaven ordained to this young Lord, had not failed to tell him what arms he would have him use. And to the end that you believe my words no more then the circumstances which render you your good fortune certain; I will give unto you an irreproachable testimony thereof: This said, he commanded that the Nurse should be brought, whom he had caused to come to Rennes to put this prodigie out of doubt. The poor woman seeing her self at the Dutchess feet, asked her pardon, protesting that she offended not through malice; her Highness might well forgive her, if the artifices of Gerard had circumvented her simplicity. After this confession, she continued to report with much cleerness and candour what had passed in the Dutchess child-bed, and upon what perswasions she consen­ted to his carrying away; there need no more doubt of a thing which had so [Page 123]many miraculous proofs to support it. Artus having then saluted his dear wife, he held her this discourse.

‘Madam, I confesse that my soul is so divided between the admiration of that which hath passed, and the regret of that which hath pass'd between you and me, that I have no lesse shame then plea­sure to see me before your eyes. I a­dore with all my ravishments the ami­able Providence which hath conserved me him whom I supposed destroyed, and her that I would destroy. Let his goodnesse for ever be praised of men and Angels, in that he hath vouchsafed to do so many miracles, to keep me from being guilty of the death of two Inno­cents. Alas! where wouldst thou have been, my poor son, if heaven had for­saken thee? And where would you have been, Hirlanda, if it had not powerful­ly succoured you? But what, have I the boldnesse to tell you that you are dear unto me, after such visible marks of cruel­ty? Was it not enough that my rigour had obliged an unfortunate to flye from my house, without indeavouring to make an Innocent go out of the world? Madam. I cannot deny that my first fault [Page 124]renders me not unworthy of your good will; but who should dare also to doubt that you have not sweetness and good­nesse enough for both of them together? It is the only Motive of mercy which I can represent unto you, since I have no­thing in me which solicites you not to revenge. But if you will that I fix the hope of my pardon on any thing out of you, I conjure you by the love and ten­dernesses that we owe to this dear moie­ty of our selves, to forget your miseries and my errors, that you may live as haply for the future, as you have lived innocent for the time pass'd; for my part, I will contribute thereunto with all my power, assuring you that the only joy which I desire in the world, is to see you live there content.’

As he had finished, and that the Prin­cesse assured him the best that she could to forget her misfortunes, the one and the o­ther cast themselves at one time about the neck of the young Bertrand, which they wet all over with the torrent of their tears. Plato hath not ill named children the glue of the husband & of the wife, since it is true that they are not tyed to their fathers and mothers, but to unite them by that means. [Page 125] Artus and Hirlanda make the proof of this sentiment.

During the sweet extasies of their ra­vishment, Gerard touched with the remorse of his conscience, and convicted by the testimony of so many true depositions, in­deavoured to save himself, as he contrived the project. But whether that the cu­stome was so, or that the Prince had or­dained it in this manner, the Ports of the Town were all shut, so that he was arrest­ed in the same place, where a little before he made account to triumph.

Providence of my God, how unjustly do men accuse thee, to say either, that thou seest not the malice of the wicked, or that thou dissemblest the excesses thereof! as if thou wert blind in thy understanding, or unjust in thy conduct. I confesse, that thou strikest not the sinner as soon as he merits it; but who sees not that thou ex­pectest his repentance by this delay, or me­ditatest his punishment in the mean time? O how true it is that the prosperity of the wicked melteth like snow, and that no­thing of his fortune remaines with him, but the delicacie, which disposes him to suffer his punishment with more bitterness. To see the cruelties and artifices of Gerard, [Page 126]who would not have judged, that Inno­cence could not defend it self from his per­secution? To see the first successes of his plots, who would have dared to hope for the vertue of his sister? And yet behold Gerard in the prison, where the poor Hir­landa shed so many teares; behold Hir­landa where Gerard promised himself so many delights.

This wicked Prince being then convicted of all the abominable practices which we have touched, the consent of all the world ran to a severe condemnation. Himselfe thought himself so unworthy to live, that he dared not to dream of his pardon: there was none but she who ought most to pur­sue his death, that indeavoured to remove it. She left not out one reason that might be advantageous to his cause, but what could her goodness suggest unto her, which rendred not Gerard more culpable? To speak in his behalf, was it not highly to publish that she was extremely good to pray for her Persecutour; and he exces­sively wicked, to have persecuted so holy a Princesse? The more sweetnesse she made appear, the lesse he seemed to me­rit it; because that the vertue and merit of those which we offend, augmenteth much [Page 127]their injury. It is cruelty to be pitiful, when the compassion of a Criminal makes us to forget the interests of an Innocent; and therefore it is sometimes sweetness to want mercy, and to bend ones resolution against the favourable thoughts which in­spire pity.

My Reader, For fear to trouble the joy which you have to see a Vertue per­fectly justified, I will not represent unto you Gerard in a prison, where both the hu­mane and the divine Justice have condem­ned him to languish all his life, his feet and hands cut off. It is true, that his suffe­rance was not long, since his life was short. The regret to have afflicted a person wor­thy of all kinds of respects, and unto whom he owed all the love of the world, wrought upon him more then could be imagined. The last sentiment which he had of his fault, made his death to be lamented even of those who should rejoyce thereof; as he felt himself neer his end, he sent unto the Dutchess, to conjure her to forget his evil conduct, protesting that he should dye with contentment, if he might dye with that favour. Demand you not why I give to this Innocence the name of Crown­ed; since she triumpheth, we should not [Page 128]deny her the Crown. Descend into the prison of Gerard, and you shall see there our holy Princesse, who endeavours to comfort her Criminal; she spares neither words nor caresses, to make him believe, that this last moment of his life, razeth out the remembrance of the many years of his persecution. To the end to take away al­together suspition, she would shut his eyes her self, deploring his agonies, as if her dear Bertrand were dead.

After having rendred testimonies of so sweet a goodnesse to her capital enemy, those who had been but the Ministers of his cruelty, ought not to fear any thing of Hirlanda's resentments; so would she ne­ver consent that they should speak of the death of that evil Nurse, who left her selfe to be corrupted by Gerard. What (said that good Princess unto those that would incline her to that Justice) have you so little affection for me, as to desire to ruine all the proofs of my Innocence? Know you not that it is glorious to Hirlanda to see those to live, that imployed themselves to make her dye? If you love me, im­portune me no more; I should be ungrate­ful, if I were perfectly just. So far am I from having cause to procure her a pu­nishment, [Page 129]that I believe me obliged to give her a recompence. Hath she not ac­companied my poor little one in his mise­ries? Hath she not presented him the teat in his necessities? And not to fix me only to the services which look but upon mine, am I not redevable unto her for the illustrious testimony which puts my vertue out of suspition and fear? Behold how our Dutchesse looked upon the fault of a­nother through the fairest place that she could have. See how all those that suffer like she should revenge themselves with her. Whatsoever evil an enemy doth us, we shall alwayes have some Reason to ex­cuse him, and even to like his persecution, provided that we regard him where he is profitable unto us. But we must not ex­pect this discretion, but from Heroick Ver­tues, since the common sort of men find too often darts of Offence, even in the most obliging favours.

One should not demand if those who had done good to the Mother and son, re­ceived the reward of their service and good will. The holy old man Bertrand would have no other recompence but that which he expected from heaven; but he permit­ted his brother and sister to profit by the [Page 130]benefits of the Duke and Dutchess, who considered them no otherwise then them­selves, seeing they had been so long the father and mother of their dear Infant.

The whole Province bare a part in the publick rejoycement; nothing was forgot­ten that might contribute to the joy of that little Court. The Turneyes, the Justs, the Courses at the Ring, the Dan­ces, the Masques, and all the other exer­cises of Galantry, might perswade that it was the first day of Artus and Hirlanda's Nuptials, if they had not seen the little Bertrand, who was the chaste fruit there­of. After some years of a life, as sweet, as the first of her marriage had been bitter, with a common consent, the Duke and Dutchesse put their Ducal Crown upon the head of their son, who failed not afterward to labour with all his power the content­ments of them both.

The History hath observed nothing in particular of that which passed since this memorable accident; but though it speaks of the good fortune of Hirlanda, we must not believe that her greatest prosperity consisted in the petty contentments of the earth: It is in heaven that she receives her full and perfect recompence; it is with [Page 131]this recompence that she concludes that which is worth unto Innocence, a perse­cution which she hath not merited, and that there is no vertue more desirable, then that which possesseth nothing here below of Honours or Wealth. Who could comprehend the sweet joyes that come unto her now from that dear solitude where she passed her exile of seven yeares? Who could penetrate into the esteeme of the suffrances of her imprisonment?

Vertuous Princesse! There is none but you that may know the weight and value of that precious dishonour, and of that glo­rious Infamy, which hath shadowed your purity, but to make the splendor thereof to appear with the more vigour.

They hold, that the most illustrious mo­nument which rests unto us of this strange adventure, is in the Eschutcheon of Breta­ny, where they will have the Ermine to have taken a place to conserve honourably the memory of it. If it be so that the Armes of this Province have their birth in the Cradle of Bertrand, it seemes that they have judged very fitly, that that which had served to the safety of one of her Princes, should be employed hence-foward in the highest marks of their glo­ry. [Page 332]They say then, that after this famous event, the Ermine succeeds three sheaves of corne bound with God, which Pen­thieura with-holds in the skirt of Bretany. or rather in the Scutcheon of Gules in nine Mascles d'or, which those of the House of Rohan have received since this divorce. I know well that some Authours make these Mascles to come from one Maclia­nus, who lived in the time of our great King Lodowick. But surely, to dissemble nothing my thoughts, I see not what re­semblance there can be between his name and their figure. Without giving the glory of all that which we have famous in France, to Romance, we may say, that the Counts of Rohan, have chosen for Armes what was most rare within the Territory of their Dominion, where al­most all the stones and plants are traced with certain figures which represent Mas­cles. Thus the Lords of that ancient House carry Armes as natural as the Inhabitants of Tenedos, who marked an Axe in their coat, because that the Crabs of their Promontory Asterion, had their scale imprinted with the perfect figure of an Axe.

Though the sheaves or Mascles have yeilded to the Ermine, either because that one of the Dukes of Bretany saw one day our Lady habited with that delicate and noble skin, or because that the Prince of whom we speak, was enveloped there­with; it is without doubt that the ancient Kings of arms, who were not so knowing as the new, have failed in the enamel, and in the blason of the Scutcheon of Bretany, since its ground ought to be of argent, and not of sable, but rather its spots which they made of argent. As much as we may call into doubt of what I write of the Ermine, at least we ought not to deny that it hath alwaies been in great venera­tion in this Dutchy. I leave out many proofs thereof; without speaking of the Castle of the Ermine, it sufficeth me to produce only one of them, to make ap­pear that the purple was not more august amongst the Romans, then the Ermine was sometimes so to the Bretains.

No body is ignorant, that almost all Soveraigns have instituted Orders of Knight-hood, either to witness to poste­rity the esteem which they made of the things which they used in their composi­tion, or to give to their subjects some [Page 134]glorious motives of generosity: so Charls Martel invented the Order of the Gene [...]; King Robert son of Capet, that of the Star; and Saint Lewis the second of the loss of the Genet, and of the Crescent; leaving to Lewis the second that follow­ed him that of St. Michael. Henry the third, willing to render thanks to the Holy Ghost for that he was born, chosen King of Poland, and the year following called to the Crown of France the day of its Festival, he instituted his Order of the Holy Ghost: In imitation of them, the English have found out their Garter; the Burgundians their Fleece, and the Bretains the Order of the Ermine, or of the Espy. Francis the second instituted it in the yeer 1450. The Coller was of two circles of gold, wherein a great num­ber of Espies were interlaced in cross: in the last circle hung on two chains of gold an Ermine passing upon a flowery bank with this device, To my life. I have a great inclination to believe, that the adventure of Bertrand, and the inno­cence of our Hirlanda, gave subject to this institution. The nature of that animal, more white then snow, and who suffers rather to be taken of the Hunter, then to [Page 135]save her self in a dirty place, furnisheth no little resemblance to the purity of that Il­lustrious Princess.

I oblige no body to receive my senti­ments, but I should well dare to pray ho­nest men to cast their eyes upon this Histo­ry. I am assured, if they do me the honour to seek divertisement to their reading, that they will have another opinion of Hir­landa's miseries on the end, then on the beginning of her adventures. My Reader, your excellent nature perswades me that you have not seen this Innocent amongst the forrests, and in prison, without weep­ing with her the injustice of her fortune. Without doubt her little Bertrand raised pity in you, when you knew that he was destined to death; and that she who should give him life, carried him to the tomb. Confess unto me freely, have you not a little murmured in that it seemed the Providence of God did abandon the Innocents to the cruelty of the Guilty? Fear not to acknowledg a sentiment wherewith the greatest Saints have been sometimes surprized; provided, that you have resisted an evil judgment, which so long a train of misfortunes hath endea­voured to form in your spirit; you may [Page 136]pass for weak, but not for criminal. And though you should have staggered a little, I am certain that the end of this lamenta­ble and marvellous History, would have sustained and redressed your steps: I dare likewise to promise me that the triumphs and glory of Hirlanda, will make you to wish a like fortune. Believe it not there­fore better then that of Joan of Arc, who would sigh still under the oppression of calumny, if she were not impassible in the glory of the blessed. If it happeneth that you be afflicted (without doubt it will happen) and that God recompenseth your sufferings in this life, praise his good­nes in that he descendeth so to your weaknesse. If he ordains only that your vertue be acknowledged, after the dis­guisements of envy, content you with that, and demand not insolently where are the fruits of your merit. But if he will that your innocence be suspected even unto that day of the last judgment, when the great Marscarade of this life shal finish, adore with submission his Providence which conceals our sanctity to assure the treasure thereof. Hold for indubitable that almost all men pass in the world Incognitò: those that appear to have [Page 137]much merit, have too often but the shew thereof. On the contrary, a great num­ber of persons resemble those noble stran­gers that traverse our France under ex­treme modest habits: their quality is un­known, but their life and their purse is assured. Rejoyce you at this, that your vertue is secret; the less splendor it shall have, the more constancy: in losing its lustre, it acquires merit.

The ill opinion that I ought to have of my works, makes me to fear that few peo­ple draw fruit from them; but the good which I have of them that daign to read them, makes me to hope that they wil not be altogether unprofitable. Perhaps that the villanous stroaks which I give unto Calumny in my Discourses, will in­spire the hatred thereof; and that the Hi­stories which present the Idea of a perfect patience, will beget the love or contempt of the persecution of tongues. Who would be so weak to apprehend that little noise which detraction makes, or so insensible to neglect the precious merit that it pro­duceth? It belongs not but unto him that thinks to lose, to gain; when an envious person endeavours to ravish his honour from him. I grant, that he takes from us [Page 138]as little as may be of our lustre, he never toucheth his true subject. There is this difference between the honest man, and the man of honour, that the first hath the true good, which is merit; and the se­cond possesseth the splendor thereof, which consisteth in the esteem. I should not be of the opinion of those that think that honour makes the last perfection of vertue, or to speak better in their senti­ment, that honour is the perfect vertue. What apparence is there that the last fea­ture of man should be out of him, and that ever he should be compleated, if those that look on him judg him not? Our condition would be worse then that of the meanest works of Art and Nature, which receive not their accomplishment from the thought which is formed of their excellence, but rather from an interiour term which finisheth them. Honour be­ing then a strange mark of vertue, ca­lumny may hinder us to pass for people of Honour, but it cannot make us not to be vertuous: in spight of all its envy, we shall be honourable, if we have merit, although we cannot be honoured, if we possess not its favour. I dare likewise assure, that detraction, which indeavours [Page 139]to wound vertue, is advantageous to its glory; not only by the encreasements that it gives to its principle, but also by the relief wherewith it raiseth its rayes. They are not the beauties only of a face, which draw new graces from the black­ness that seems to disfigure them: these shadowes which the malice of a jea­lous person would fasten upon merit, serve not but to make it to be remarkable, in the same manner, as there is but the Eclipse that gives us the means to see the Sun. To judg at first, and upon the first sight, one would blieve that these gulfs which appear in the pictures, pierce the wall that bears them, and that these Abysines which a lit­tle oyl and colours make upon the cloth, prepare shipwrack to the eyes and imagi­nations that contemplate them. And yet if we look here more narrowly and neerer, we shall find that these precipies are at the highest superficies of the portrait, and that the point of the most eminent mountains, hath no more elevation, then the hollow­ness of these deep Enfonceurs; that is, an agreeable illusion, and a profitable deceit, which abaseth us to raise us; let us judg soundly of calumny, and we shall see, that though she hath some other design, she [Page 140]hath notwithstanding that effect. How many great Vertues are there which are un­known unto us, because no body hath tra­duced them? How many are there that glitter, because malice hath cast a cloud up­on them? Not to go from my subject, and to leave an example which merits our ap­plication: Should Hirlanda have come un­to us without her disgraces? should we have known her merit, if it had not been combatted? A thousand Princesses of as high a birth as she, remain buried in oblivi­on, in not having met with a brother in law, or in having one better then Gerard. There is reason then sometimes to wish misfortunes; imprisonment is then advan­tageous; an enemy hath benefits, and dis­honour, glory. But if it happen that calum­ny takes truly from us what we possess a­mongst men, never goes it so far as to God; the loss which we make, will be but an Eclipse in the Ephemerides of the time that passeth, and not in the book of life which remains eternally. Comfort your self then, my Reader, if tongues do you some injustice: perhaps you will judg one day, that those whom you make the ob­ject now of all your hates, do merit acti­ons of thanks from your acknowledgment. [Page 141]But if you cannot have these lights in this life, and that the love of a detractor would be a vertue too hard, I consent that you should conserve your reputation carefully; provided, that your care be without im­pressment. Should you not be blind to lose peace, which is the dear treasure of your heart, to defend renown, which is but the invisible picture of your vertue? In case that you should quit a little of the tranquillity of your spirit, I conjure you diminish nothing of the Innocence of your soul. Remember, that that jealousie which with too much inquietude combats honour, hazardeth not only its lustre, but ruins also the merit which serves for foun­dation unto it. The fable saith, that Ju­piter brake the eggs of the Eagle which he had in his bosom, in shaking off the mute of the bird that defiled his purple; how lively it expresseth that which you would do if you should abandon vertue, to con­serve its fame? It is an ill fashion to take away the blemishes of a face, to strip the skin off; it is that notwithstanding which a mother doth, passionate of her childs complexion, and a man too amorous of his reputation: she woundeth a flesh, which she would purifie from its defects, [Page 142]and he offends the merit which he pretends to priviledg from blame. My Reader, since I have but one word to say unto you, receive this last advice from me, and believe me true, if I maintain, that the least trou­blesome way to conserve the esteem of men, is to make little accompt of their sentiment. Come you your self to the practice of this generous contempt; and I am certain, that as soon as you leave tongues to speak, your vertue triumpheth; and that if you suffer quietly their malice, you assure for ever your Innocence.

FINIS.

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