Ulenspiegel said not a word and went out.
Presently he went into a gaffhouse so as not to forget to drink. The gaff was full of drinkers speaking imprudently of the king, of the detested proclamations, of the Inquisition and of the Red Dog who must be forced to leave the country. He saw the old woman, all in rags, and seeming to doze beside a pint of brandy. She remained like that for a long time; then he saw her taking a little platter out of her pocket, asking money, especially from those who spoke the most incautiously.
And the men gave her florins, deniers, and patards, and without stinginess.
Ulenspiegel, hoping to learn from the girl what the old Sapermillemente woman did not say to him, passed before the house again; he saw the girl who was not crying out her rhyme any more, but smiled at him and winked her eye, a sweet promise.
All on a sudden the old woman came back after him.
Ulenspiegel, angry to see her, ran like a stag into the street crying out: “’T brandt! ’t brandt! Fire! Fire!” till he came before the house of the baker Jacob Pietersen. The front, glazed in the German fashion, was flaming red to the sunset. A thick smoke, the smoke of faggots turning to red coals in the furnace, was pouring out of the bakehouse chimney. Ulenspiegel never ceased to cry as he ran: “’T brandt, ’t brandt,” and pointed out Jacob Pietersen’s house. The crowd, gathering in front of it, saw the red windows, the thick smoke, and cried like Ulenspiegel: “’T brandt, ’t brandt, it burns! it burns!” The watchman on Notre Dame de la Chapelle blew his trumpet while the beadle rang the bell called Wacharm in full peal. And lads and lasses ran up in swarms, singing and whistling.
The bell and the trumpet still sounding, the old Sapermillemente woman picked up her heels and went off.
Ulenspiegel was watching her. When she was far away, he came into the house.
“You here!” said the girl; “is there not a fire then over yonder?”
“Yonder? No,” replied Ulenspiegel.