When the good man heard this news, he was much inclined to laugh, but he agreed to go to his chamber along with his assistant—who first made him promise that he would not kill the curé, or otherwise he would not accompany him, but consented that the curé should be well punished.
They went up to the chamber, and the door was soon opened. The husband entered first, and saw his wife in the arms of the curé who was forging as hard as he could.
The goldsmith cried;
“Die, die, scoundrel! What brings you here?”
The curé was surprised and alarmed, and begged for mercy.
“Silence, rascally priest, or I will kill you on the spot!”
“Oh, neighbour have mercy, for God’s sake,” said the curé; “do with me whatever you like.”
“By my father’s soul! before I let you go I will make you so that you will never want to hammer on any feminine anvil again. Get up, and let yourself be bound, unless you wish to die!”
The poor wretch allowed himself to be fastened by his two enemies to a bench, face upwards, and with his legs hanging down on each side of the bench. When he was well fastened, so that he could move nothing but his head, he was carried thus trussed (*) into a little shed behind the house, which the goldsmith used as a melting-room.
(*) The word in the original is marescaucié, which
presumably means,—treated as the soldiers of the
maréchaussée treated their prisoners. Bibliophile Jacob
avoided philological pitfalls of this sort by omitting the
phrase altogether.