“You are a liar.”
“I had only just taken off my shirt when you came, and I have never seen this angel before.”
“And that’s gospel truth,” said the Corticelli.
“Are you aware that you are a couple of impudent scoundrels? And as for you, master canon, you deserve to be roasted like St. Laurence.”
In the meanwhile the wretched ecclesiastic had huddled on his clothes.
“Follow me, sir,” said I, in a tone which froze the marrow of his bones; and I accordingly took him to my room.
“What will you do,” said I, “if I forgive you and let you go without putting you to shame?”
“I will leave in an hour and a half, and you shall never see me here again; but even if we meet in the future, you will find me always ready to do you a service.”
“Very good. Begone, and in the future take more precautions in your amorous adventures.”
After this I went to bed, well pleased with what I had seen and what I had done, for I now had complete power over the Corticelli.