They drank together so long and emptied so many flagons with small talk that the hostess was forced to bid her servant give the customers their drink, while she and Ulenspiegel withdrew into a back parlour all of marble and as cold as winter.
Leaning her head on his shoulder she asked him who he was. Ulenspiegel replied:
“I am Sire of Geeland, Count of Gavergeeten, Baron of Tuchtendell, and at Damme, which is my birthplace, I have five and twenty bonniers of moonshine.”
“What land is that?” asked the hostess, drinking out of Ulenspiegel’s tankard.
“It is,” said he, “a soil wherein are sown the seeds of illusion, of wild hopes and airy promises. But thou wast not born in the moonlight land, sweet hostess of the amber skin, and eyes shining like pearls. ’Tis the sun’s colour the embrowned gold of thy hair; it was Venus that without jealousy bestowed on thee thy plump shoulders, thy full breasts, thy round arms, thy dainty hands. Shall we sup together to-night?”
“Handsome pilgrim of Flanders,” said she, “why do you come hither?”
“To talk with the Pope,” said Ulenspiegel.
“Alas!” said she, joining her hands, “talk with the Pope! I that am of this land, I have never been able to do that.”
“I shall do it,” said Ulenspiegel.
“But,” said she, “know you where he goes, what manner of man he is, what are his habits and his ways of living?”