“Come, wife,” said the smith, “and do not believe all these lying tales.”
“Smetse,” said she, “will you in good truth do me no hurt?”
“None,” said he, and took her by the hand.
“Ah,” she said suddenly, “my poor man, thou art cold and hungry and thirsty indeed!”
“Yes,” said he.
“Well then,” said she, “eat, drink, and warm thyself.”
While Smetse was eating and drinking he told his wife how he had been forbidden the door to Paradise, and how he designed to take from the cellar a full cask of bruinbier and bottles of French wine, to sell to those who went into the Holy City, so that he might be well paid, and with the money he received buy himself better food.
“This, my man,” she said, “is all very well, but will Master St. Peter give thee permission to set up at the gates of Paradise such a tavern?”
“Of that,” he said, “I have hope.”
And Smetse, laden with his cask and bottles, went his way back, up towards the good Paradise.