He passed the whole Sunday in golfing, and in the evening he rested himself by playing a game of matrimony at the “Fighting Cock.” He spread his apron under the feet of the players, and the devil himself could not have put them out of the tavern, much less the rural policeman. On Monday morning he stopped the pilgrims who were going to worship at Notre Dame de Bon Secours; he induced them to rest themselves upon his causeuse, and did not let them go before he had confessed them well.
In short, he led the most agreeable life that a good Fleming can imagine, and only regretted one thing—namely, that he had not wished it might last for ever.
VI
Well, it happened one day that the strongest player of Mons, who was called Paternostre, was found dead on the edge of a bunker. His head was broken, and near him was his niblick, red with blood.
They could not tell who had done this business, and as Paternostre often said that at golf he feared neither man nor devil, it occurred to them that he had challenged Mynheer van Belzébuth, and that as a punishment for this he had knocked him on the head. Mynheer van Belzébuth is, as every one knows, the greatest gamester that there is upon or under the earth, but the game he particularly affects is golf. When he goes his round in Flanders one always meets him, club in hand, like a true Fleming.
The wheelwright of Coq was very fond of Paternostre, who, next to himself, was the best golfer in the country. He went to his funeral with some golfers from the hamlets of Coq, La Cigogne, and La Queue de l’Ayache.
On returning from the cemetery they went to the tavern to drink, as they say, to the memory of the dead,[21] and there they lost themselves in talk about the noble game of golf. When they separated, in the dusk of evening:
“A good journey to you,” said the Belgian players, “and may St. Antony, the patron of golfers, preserve you from meeting the devil on the way!”
“What do I care for the devil?” replied Roger. “If he challenged me I should soon beat him!”