“For having danced on a holy day.”
“Get out; I won’t pay.”
“You will pay, though,” said he, shewing me a great parchment covered with writing I did not understand.
“I will appeal.”
“To whom, sir?”
“To the judge of the place.”
He left the room, and in a quarter of an hour I was told that the judge was waiting for me in an adjoining chamber. I thought to myself that the judges were very polite in that part of the world, but when I got into the room I saw the rascally host buried in a wig and gown.
“Sir,” said he, “I am the judge.”
“Judge and plaintiff too, as far as I can see.”
He wrote in his book, confirming the sentence, and mulcting me in six francs for the costs of the case.