“The pitchers are full,” she said, “but that doth not suffice for my peace of mind.”
“It seems that you are downhearted over your good fortune,” said Claes.
“I was thinking,” she said, “that there is not so much as a penny piece in that leather bag of ours hanging on the wall.”
Claes took hold of the bag and shook it. But in vain. There was no sign of any money. He looked crestfallen. Nevertheless, hoping to comfort his good wife—
“What are you worrying about?” says he. “Have we not in the bin that cake we offered Katheline yesterday? And don’t I see a great piece of meat over there that should make good milk for the child for three days at the least? And this tub of butter, is it a ghost-tub? And are they spectres, those apples ranged like flags and banners all in battle order, row after row, in the storeroom? And is there no promise of cool refreshment guarded safe in the paunch of our fine old cask of cuyte de Bruges?”
Soetkin said: “When we take the child to be christened we shall have to give two patards to the priest, and a florin for the feasting.”
But at this moment Katheline returned, with a great bundle of herbs in her arms.
“For the child that is born with a caul,” she cried. ”Angelica that keeps men from luxury; fenel that preserves them from Satan....”
“Have you none of that herb,” asked Claes, “which is called florins?”
“No,” said she.