“Smetse,” said the voice, “is mad to wish himself dead, for he shall have again, if he will, his fair smithy, his good red fire, his good workmen, and as many golden royals in his coffers as he sees sparks in this tree.”
“I,” exclaimed the smith in great delight, “shall never have such fine things as that! They are not for such miserables as I.”
“Smetse,” said the voice, “all things are possible to my master.”
“Ah,” said the smith, “you come from the devil, Lord?”
“Yes,” answered the voice, “and I come to thee on his account to propose a bargain: For seven years thou shalt be rich, thou shalt have thy smithy the finest in the town of Ghent; thou shalt win gold enough to pave the Quai aux Oignons; thou shalt have in thy cellars enough beer and wine to wet all the dry throttles in Flanders; thou shalt eat the finest meats and the most delicate game; thou shalt have hams in plenty, sausages in abundance, mince-pies in heaps; every one shall respect thee, admire thee, sing thy praises; Slimbroek at the sight of it shall be filled with rage; and for all these great benefits thou hast only to give us thy soul at the end of seven years.”
“My soul?” said Smetse, “’tis the only thing I have; would you not, My Lord Devil, make me rich at a less price?”
“Wilt thou or wilt thou not, smith?” said the voice.
“Ah,” answered Smetse, “you offer me things that are very desirable, even, My Lord Devil (if I may say it without offence), more than I wish; for if I might have only my forge and enough customers to keep the fire alight I should be happier than My Lord Albert or Madam Isabella.”
“Take or leave it, smith,” said the voice.
“Lord Devil,” answered Smetse, “I beg you not to become angry with me, but to deign to consider that if you give me but my forge, and not all this gold, wine, and meats, you might perhaps be content to let my soul burn for a thousand years, which time is not at all to be compared with the great length of all eternity, but would seem long enough to whomever must pass it in the fire.”