And then he whispered into the husband’s ears this sage advice—
“My lord, use your best argument, and you will silence her with it, because a woman’s mouth it is only full of words when she is empty elsewhere. Argue continually, and thus you will always have the upper hand of your wife.”
“By the body of the Jupiter! There’s good in this monk after all,” said the seigneur, as he went out.
As soon as Amador found himself alone with Perrotte he spoke to her, as follows—
“You are to blame, my dear, for having wished to torment a poor servant of God; therefore are you now the object of celestial wrath, which will fall upon you. To whatever place you fly it will always follow you, will seize upon you in every limb, even after your death, and will cook you like a pasty in the oven of hell, where you will simmer eternally, and every day you will receive seven hundred thousand million lashes of the whip, for the one I received through you.”
“Ah! holy Father,” said the wench, casting herself at the monk’s feet, “you alone can save me, for in your gown I should be sheltered from the anger of God.”
Saying this, she raised the robe to place herself beneath it, and exclaimed—
“By my faith! monks are better than knights.”
“By the sulphur of the devil! You are not acquainted with the monks?”
“No,” said Perrotte.