STORY THE NINETY-FOURTH — DIFFICULT TO PLEASE.
(*) There is no author’s name to this story in any of the
editions.
Of a curé who wore a short gown, like a gallant about to be married, for which cause he was summoned before the Ordinary, and of the sentence which was passed, and the defence he made, and the other tricks he played afterwards—as you will plainly hear.
In Picardy, in the diocese of Therouenne, there lived about a year and a half ago, in one of the large towns, a curé who aped the fashionable youth of the time. He wore a short gown, and high boots, as was the fashion at Court, and, in short, was as great a gallant as you would see,—which gave no small offence to all good Churchmen.
The Ordinary of Therouenne—who is generally known as the “big devil” —was informed of the behaviour of this curé, and cited him to appear to be punished, and ordered to change his method of dressing.
He appeared in his short gown, as though he cared little for the Ordinary, or thinking, perhaps, that he was going to be let off for his good looks, but this did not happen, for when he was before the judge, the “promoter” related the case at full length, and demanded that these clothes and other vanities should be forbidden him, and that he should be condemned to pay certain fines.
The judge, seeing at a glance what sort of man our curé was, forbade him, by all the penalties of canon law, to disguise himself in the way he had done, and ordered that he was to wear long gowns and long hair, and moreover, to pay a good sum of money.
The curé promised that he would do so, and never again be summoned for a similar offence. He left the Court and returned to his cure, and as soon as he came there, he called the draper and the tailor, and he had a gown made which trailed three quarters of an ell on the ground; for he told the tailor how he had been reproved for wearing a short gown, and ordered to wear a long one.
He put on this long robe, and allowed his beard and hair to grow, and in this habit performed his parochial duties, sang Mass, and did everything that a priest has to do.
The promoter was soon informed that the curé behaved in a way not compatible with good morals, whereupon a fresh summons was issued, and the priest appeared in his long gown.
“What is this?” asked the judge when the curé appeared before him. “It seems that you make fun of the statutes and ordinances of the Church! Why do you not dress like the other priests? If it were not for some of your friends I should send you to prison.”
“What, monseigneur!” said the curé. “Did you not order me to wear a long gown, and long hair? Have I not done as I was commanded? Is not my gown long enough? Is not my hair long? What do you wish me to do?”
“I wish,” said the judge, “and I command that your gown and hair should be half long, neither too much nor too little, and for this great fault that you have committed, I condemn you to pay a fine of ten pounds to the Prosecutor, twenty pounds to the Chapter, and as much to the Bishop of Therouenne for his charities.”
Our curé was much astonished, but there was nothing for it but to comply. He took leave of the judge, and returned to his house, considering how he should attire himself in order to obey the judge’s sentence. He sent for the tailor, whom he ordered to make a gown as long on one side as that we have mentioned, and, as short as the first one on the other side, then he had himself shaved on one side only—that on which the gown was short—and in this guise went about the streets, and performed his sacred duties; and although he was told this was not right of him, he paid no attention.
The Prosecutor was again informed, and cited him to appear a third time. When he appeared, God knows how angry the judge was—he was almost beside himself, and, could scarcely sit on the Bench when he saw the curé dressed like a mummer. If the priest had been mulcted before he was still more so this time, and was condemned to pay very heavy fines.
Then the curé, finding himself thus amerced in fines and amends, said to the judge.
“With all due respect, it seems to me that I have obeyed your orders. Hear what I have to say, and I will prove it.”
Then he covered his long beard with his hand, and said;
“If you like, I have no beard.” Then, covering the shaved side of his face, he said, “If you like, I have a long beard. Is not that what you ordered?”
The judge, seeing that he had to do with a joker, who was making fun of him, sent for a barber and a tailor, and before all the public, had the cure’s hair and beard dressed, and his gown cut to a proper and reasonable length; then he sent him back to his cure where he conducted himself properly—having learned the right manner at the expense of his purse.
STORY THE NINETY-FIFTH — THE SORE FINGER CURED. [95]
By Philippe De Laon.
Of a monk who feigned to be very ill and in danger of death, that he might obtain the favours of a certain young woman in the manner which is described hereafter.
It is usually the case, thank God, that in many religious communities there are certain good fellows who can play “base instruments”.
Apropos of this, there was formerly in a convent at Paris, a good brother, a preacher, who was accustomed to visit his female neighbours. One day his choice lighted on a very pretty woman, a near neighbour, young, buxom, and spirited, and but recently married to a good fellow.
Master monk fell in love with her, and was always thinking and devising ways and means by which he could compass his desires—which were, in short, to do you know what. Now he decided, “That is what I’ll do.” Then he changed his mind. So many plans came into his head that he could not decide on any; but of one thing he was sure, and that was that words alone would never seduce her from the paths of virtue. “For she is too virtuous, and too prudent. I shall be obliged, if I want to gain my ends, to gain them by cunning and deception.”
Now listen to the plan the rascal devised, and how he dishonestly trapped the poor, little beast, and accomplished his immoral desires, as he proposed.
He pretended one day to have a bad finger—that which is nearest to the thumb, and is the first of the four on the right hand—and he wrapped it in linen bandages, and anointed it with strong-smelling ointments.
He went about with it thus for a day or two, hanging about the church porch, when he thought the aforesaid woman was coming, and God knows what pain he pretended to suffer.
The silly wench looked on him with pity, and seeing by his face that he appeared to be in great pain, she asked him what was the matter; and the cunning fox pitched up a piteous tale.
The day passed, and on the morrow, about the hour of vespers, when the good woman was at home alone, the patient came and sat by her, and acted the sick man, that anyone who had seen him would have believed that he was in great danger. Sometimes he would walk to the window, then back again to the woman, and put on so many strange tricks that you would have been astonished and deceived if you had seen him. And the poor foolish girl, who pitied him so that the tears almost started from her eyes, comforted him as best she could,
“Alas, Brother Aubrey, have you spoken to such and such physicians?”
“Yes, certainly, my dear,” he replied. “There is not a doctor or surgeon in Paris who has not studied my case.”
“And what do they say? Will you have to suffer this pain for a long time?”
“Alas! yes; until I die, unless God helps me; for there is but one remedy for ray complaint, and I would rather die than reveal what that is,—for it is very far from decent, and quite foreign to my holy profession.”
“What?” cried the poor girl. “Then there is a remedy! Then is it not very wrong and sinful of you to allow yourself to suffer thus? Truly it seems so to me, for you are in danger of losing sense and understanding, so sharp and terrible is the pain.”
“By God, very sharp and terrible it is,” said Brother Aubrey, “but there!—God sent it; praised be His name. I willingly suffer and bear all, and patiently await death, for that is the only remedy indeed—excepting one I mentioned to you—which can cure me.”
“But what is that?”
“I told you that I should not dare to say what it is,—and even if I were obliged to reveal what it is, I should never have the will or power to put it in execution.”
“By St. Martin!” said the good woman, “it appears to me that you are very wrong to talk like that. Pardieu! tell me what will cure you, and I assure you that I will do my utmost to help you. Do not wilfully throw away your life when help and succour can be brought. Tell me what it is, and you will see that I will help you—I will, pardieu, though it should cost me more than you imagine.” The monk, finding his neighbour was willing to oblige him, after a great number of refusals and excuses, which, for the sake of brevity, I omit, said in a low voice.
“Since you desire that I should tell you, I will obey. The doctors all agreed that there was but one remedy for my complaint, and that was to put my finger into the secret place of a clean and honest woman, and keep it there for a certain length of time, and afterwards apply a certain ointment of which they gave me the receipt. You hear what the remedy is, and as I am by disposition naturally modest, I would rather endure and suffer all my ills than breathe a word to a living soul. You alone know of my sad lot, and that in spite of me.”
“Well!” said the good woman, “what I said I would do I will do. I will willingly help to cure you, and am well pleased to be able to relieve you of the terrible pain which torments you, and find you a place in which you can put your sore finger.”
“May God repay you, damsel,” said the monk. “I should never have dared to make the request, but since you are kind enough to help me, I shall not be the cause of my own death. Let us go then, if it please you, to some secret place where no one can see us.”
“It pleases me well,” she replied.
So she led him to a fair chamber, and closed the door, and laid upon the bed, and the monk lifted up her clothes, and instead of the finger of his hand, put something hard and stiff in the place. When he had entered, she feeling that it was very big, said,
“How is it that your finger is so swollen? I never heard of anything like it.”
“Truly,” he replied, “it is the disease which made it like that.”
“It is wonderful,” she said.
Whilst this talk was going on, master monk accomplished that for which he had played the invalid so long. She when she felt—et cetera—asked what that was, and he replied,
“It is the boil on my finger which has burst. I am cured I think—thank God and you.”
“On my word I am pleased to hear it,” said the woman as she rose from the bed. “If you are not quite cured, come back as often as you like;—for to remove your pain there is nothing I would not do. And another time do not be so modest when it is a question of recovering your health.”
STORY THE NINETY-SIXTH — A GOOD DOG. [96]
Of a foolish and rich village curé who buried his dog in the church-yard; for which cause he was summoned before his Bishop, and how he gave 60 gold crowns to the Bishop, and what the Bishop said to him—which you will find related here.
Listen if you please to what happened the other day to a simple village curé. This good curé had a dog which he had brought up, and which surpassed every other dog in the country in fetching a stick out of the water, or bringing a hat that his master had forgotten, and many other tricks. In short, this wise and good dog excelled in everything, and his master so loved him that he never tired of singing his praises.
At last, I know not how, whether he ate something that disagreed with him, or whether he was too hot or too cold, the poor dog became very ill, and died, and went straightway to wherever all good dogs do go.
What did the honest curé do? You must know that his vicarage adjoined the church-yard, and when he saw his poor dog quit this world, he thought so wise a beast ought not to be without a grave, so he dug a hole near the door of his house, and in the church-yard, and there buried his dog. I do not know if he gave the dog a monument and an epitaph, I only know that the news of the good dog’s death spread over the village, and at last reached the ears of the Bishop, together with the report that his master had given him holy burial.
The curé was summoned to appear before the Bishop, who sent a sergeant to fetch him.
“Alas!” said the curé, “what have I done, and why have I to appear before the Bishop? I am much surprised at receiving this summons.”
“As for me,” said the sergeant, “I do not know what it is for, unless it is because you buried your dog in the holy ground which is reserved for the bodies of Christians.”
“Ah,” thought the curé to himself, “that must be it,” and it occurred to him that he had done wrong, but he knew that he could easily escape being put into prison, by paying a fine, for the Lord Bishop—God be praised—was the most avaricious prelate in the Kingdom, and only kept those about him who knew how to bring grist to the mill.
“At any rate I shall have to pay, and it may as well be soon as late.”
On the appointed day, he appeared before the Bishop, who immediately delivered a long sermon about the sin of burying a dog in consecrated ground, and enlarged on the offence so wonderfully that he made it appear that the curé had done something worse than deny God; and at the end he ordered the curé to be put in prison.
When the curé found that he was to be shut up in the stone box, he demanded permission to be heard, and the Bishop gave him leave to speak.
You must know that there were a number of notable persons at this convocation—the judge, the prosecutor, the secretaries, and notaries, advocates, and procureurs, who were all much amused at this unusual case of the poor curé who had buried his dog in consecrated ground.
The curé spoke briefly in his defence, to this effect.
“Truly, my Lord Bishop, if you had known my poor dog as well as I did, you would not be surprised that I gave him Christian burial, for his like was never seen;” and then he began to recount his doings.
“And as he was so good and wise when he was living, he was still more so at his death; for he made a beautiful will, and, as he knew your poverty and need, he left you fifty golden crowns, which I now bring you.”
So saying, he drew the money from his bosom and gave it to the Bishop, who willingly received it, and greatly praised the good dog, and approved of his will, and was glad to know that he had received honourable sepulture.
