STORY THE EIGHTY-THIRD — THE GLUTTONOUS MONK.
By Monseigneur De Vaurin.
Of a Carmelite monk who came to preach at a village and after his sermon, he went to dine with a lady, and how he stuffed out his gown, as you will hear.
It is the custom of all countries for religious mendicants—Jacobins, Cordeliers, Carmelites, and Augustinians—to go through all the towns and villages, preaching against vice, and exalting and praising virtue.
It happened once that a Carmelite, from the convent of Arras, arrived one Sunday morning, at Libers, a pretty, little town of Artois, to preach—which he could do piously and eloquently, for he was a learned man and a good orator.
Whilst the curé was chanting high Mass, our Carmelite wandered about, hoping to find some one who wanted a Mass said, whereby the monk could earn a few pence, but no one came forward.
Seeing this, an old widow lady took compassion on him, allowed him to say a Mass, and then sent her servant to give him two patars, and to beg him to come to dinner with her that day.
Master monk snapped up the money, and accepted the invitation, and as soon as he had preached his sermon, and high Mass was finished, he came.
The lady for whom he had said Mass, and who had invited him, left the church with her maid, and went home to make all ready for the preacher, who was conducted to the house by one of her servants, and most courteously received. After he had washed his hands, the lady assigned him a place by her side, and the varlet and the maid-servant prepared to serve the repast, and first they brought in leek soup, with a good piece of bacon, a dish of pig’s chitterlings, and an ox tongue, roasted.
God knows that as soon as the monk saw the viands he drew forth from his girdle a fine, long, large, and very sharp knife, and, as he said Benedicite, he set to work in the leek soup.
Very soon he had finished that and the bacon as well, and drew towards him the fine, fat chitterlings, and rioted amongst them like a wolf amongst a flock of sheep; and before his hostess had half finished her soup there was not the ghost of a chitterling left in the dish. Then he took the ox tongue, and with his sharp knife cut off so many slices that not a morsel remained.
The lady, who watched all this without saying a word, often glanced at the varlet and the servant-maid, and they smiled quietly and glanced at her. Then they brought a piece of good salt beef, and a capital piece of mutton, and put them on the table. And the good monk, who had an appetite like a hungry dog, attacked the beef, and if he had had little pity for the chitterlings and the ox tongue, still less had he for this fine piece of larded beef.
His hostess who took great pleasure in seeing him eat—which was more than the varlet and the maid, did for they cursed him beneath their breath—always filled his cup as soon as it was empty; and you may guess that if he did not spare the meat neither did he spare the drink.
He was in such a hurry to line his gown that he would hardly say a word. When the beef was all finished, and great part of the mutton—of which his hostess had scarcely eaten a mouthful—she, seeing that her guest was not yet satisfied, made a sign to the servant-maid to bring a huge ham which had been cooked the day before for the household.
The maid—cursing the priest for gorging so—obeyed the order of her mistress, and put the ham on the table. The good monk, without staying to ask “who goes there”, fell upon it tooth and nail, and at the very first attack he carried off the knuckle, then the thick end, and so dismembered it that soon there was nothing left but the bone.
The serving man and woman did not laugh much at this, for he had entirely cleared the larder, and they were half afraid that he would eat them as well.
To shorten the story—after all these before mentioned dishes, the lady caused to be placed on the table a fine fat cheese, and a dish well furnished with tarts, apples, and cheeses, with a good piece of fresh butter—of all which there was not a scrap left to take away.
The dinner which has been described being thus finished, our preacher, who was now as round as a tick, pronounced grace, and then said to his hostess;
“Damsel, I thank you for your good gifts; you have given me a hearty welcome, for which I am much obliged to you. I will pray to Him who fed five thousand men with a few loaves of barley bread and two small fishes, and after they were all filled there remained over twelve basketfuls—I will pray to Him to reward you.”
“By St. John!” said the maid-servant coming forward, “you may well talk about that. I believe that if you had been one of that multitude there would not have been anything left over; for you would have eaten up everything, and me into the bargain, if I had happened to have been there.”
“No, truly, my dear,” replied the monk, who was a jovial fellow with a ready wit, “I should not have eaten you, but I should have spitted you, and put you down to roast—that is what I should have done to you.”
The lady began to laugh, and so did the varlet and the maid-servant, in spite of themselves. And our monk, who had his belly well stuffed, again thanked his hostess for having so well filled him, and went off to another village to earn his supper—but whether that was as good as his dinner I cannot say.
STORY THE EIGHTY-FOURTH — THE DEVIL’S SHARE. [84]
By The Marquis De Rothelin.
Of one of his marshals who married the sweetest and most lovable woman there was in all Germany. Whether what I tell you is true—for I do not swear to it that I may not be considered a liar—you will see more plainly below.
Whilst we are waiting tor some one to come forward and tell us a good story, I will relate a little one which will not detain you long, but is quite true, and happened lately.
I had a marshal, who had served me long and faithfully, and who determined to get a wife, and was married to the most ill-tempered woman in all the country; and when he found that neither by good means or bad could he cure her of her evil temper, he left her, and would not live with her, but avoided her as he would a tempest, for if he knew she was in any place he would go in the contrary direction. When she saw that he avoided her, and that he gave her no opportunity of displaying her temper, she went in search of him, and followed him, crying God knows what, whilst he held his tongue and pursued his road, and this only made her worse and she bestowed more curses and maledictions on her poor husband than a devil would on a damned soul.
One day she, finding that her husband did not reply a word to anything she said, followed him through the street, crying as loud as she could before all the people;
“Come here, traitor! speak to me. I belong to you. I belong to you!”
And my marshal replied each time; “I give my share to the devil! I give my share to the devil.”
Thus they went all through the town of Lille, she crying all the while “I belong to you,” and the other replying “I give my share to the devil.”
Soon afterwards, so God willed, this good woman died, and my marshal was asked if he were much grieved at the loss of his wife, and he replied that never had such a piece of luck occurred to him, and if God had promised him anything he might wish, he would have wished for his wife’s death; “for she,” he said, “was so wicked and malicious that if I knew she were in paradise I would not go there, for there could be no peace in any place where she was. But I am sure that she is in hell, for never did any created thing more resemble a devil than she did.” Then they said to him;
“Really you ought to marry again. You should look out for some good, quiet, honest woman.”
“Marry?” said he. “I would rather go and hang myself on a gibbet than again run the danger of finding such a hell as I have—thank God—now escaped from.”
Thus he lived, and still lives—but I know not what he will be.
STORY THE EIGHTY-FIFTH — NAILED! [85]
By Monseigneur De Santilly.
Of a goldsmith, married to a fair, kind, and gracious lady, and very amorous withal of a curé, her neighbour, with whom her husband found her in bed, they being betrayed by one of the goldsmith’s servants, who was jealous, as you will hear.
A hundred years ago, or thereabouts, there happened in a town on the borders of France a curious incident, which I will relate, to increase my number of stories, and also because it deserves to rank with the others.
In this town there was a man whose wife was fair, kind, and gracious, and much enamoured of a churchman, her own curé and near neighbour, who loved her as much as she did him, but to find an opportunity to come together amorously was difficult, but it was at last found by the ingenuity of the lady, in the manner I will describe.
Her husband was a goldsmith, and so greedy of gain that he would never sleep an hour in which he could work.
Every day he would rise an hour or two before dawn, and let his wife take a long rest till eight or nine o’clock, or as long as she pleased.
This amorous dame seeing how diligent her husband was, and that he rose early every day to hammer and work, determined to employ with the curé the time during which she was neglected by her husband, and arranged that at such and such an hour her lover could visit her without her husband’s knowledge, for the cure’s house stood next to hers.
This happy expedient was proposed to the curé, who gladly accepted it, for it seemed to him that his amour could be carried on easily and secretly. So as soon as the proposal was made it was executed, and thus they continued to live for a long time; but fortune—envious perhaps of their happiness and sweet enjoyment—willed that their amours should be unfortunately discovered in the manner you will hear.
This goldsmith had an assistant, who was in love with his master’s wife, and very jealous of her, and he perceived the curé often talking to the lady, and he guessed what was the matter. But he could not imagine how and when they met, unless it was that the curé came in the morning when he and his master were in the workshop. These suspicions so ran in his head that he watched and listened in order that he might find out the truth, and he watched so well that he learned the facts of the case, for one morning he saw the curé come, soon after the goldsmith had left the chamber, and enter and close the door after him.
When he was quite sure that his suspicions were confirmed, he informed his master of his discovery in these terms.
“Master, I serve you, not only that I may earn your money, eat your bread, and do your work well and honestly, but also to protect your honour and preserve it from harm. If I acted otherwise I should not be worthy to be your servant. I have long had a suspicion that our curé was doing you a grievous wrong, but I said nothing to you until I was sure of the facts. That you may not suppose I am trumping up an idle story, I would beg of you to let us go now to your chamber, for I am sure that we shall find him there.”
When the good man heard this news, he was much inclined to laugh, but he agreed to go to his chamber along with his assistant—who first made him promise that he would not kill the curé, or otherwise he would not accompany him, but consented that the curé should be well punished.
They went up to the chamber, and the door was soon opened. The husband entered first, and saw his wife in the arms of the curé who was forging as hard as he could.
The goldsmith cried;
“Die, die, scoundrel! What brings you here?”
The curé was surprised and alarmed, and begged for mercy.
“Silence, rascally priest, or I will kill you on the spot!”
“Oh, neighbour have mercy, for God’s sake,” said the curé; “do with me whatever you like.”
“By my father’s soul! before I let you go I will make you so that you will never want to hammer on any feminine anvil again. Get up, and let yourself be bound, unless you wish to die!”
The poor wretch allowed himself to be fastened by his two enemies to a bench, face upwards, and with his legs hanging down on each side of the bench. When he was well fastened, so that he could move nothing but his head, he was carried thus trussed (*) into a little shed behind the house, which the goldsmith used as a melting-room.
(*) The word in the original is marescaucié, which
presumably means,—treated as the soldiers of the
maréchaussée treated their prisoners. Bibliophile Jacob
avoided philological pitfalls of this sort by omitting the
phrase altogether.
When the curé was safely placed in this shed, the goldsmith sent for two long nails with large heads, and with these he fastened to the bench the two hammers which had in his absence forged on his wife’s anvil, and after that undid all the ropes which fastened the poor wretch. Then taking a handful of straw, he set fire to the shed, and leaving the curé to his fate, rushed into the street, crying “Fire!”
The priest, finding himself surrounded by flames, saw that he must either lose his genitals or be burned alive, so he jumped up and ran away, leaving his purse nailed there.
An alarm was soon raised in the street, and the neighbours ran to put out the fire. But the curé sent them back, saying that he had just come from the spot, and all the harm that could occur had already been done, so that they could give no assistance—but he did not say that it was he who had suffered all the harm.
Thus was the poor curé rewarded for his love, through the false and treacherous jealousy of the goldsmith’s assistant, as you have heard.
