Next year there was music and dancing at the “Sun,” and some forty-two casks of beer were tapped.
Knoups and Geutruu laughed in their sleeves.
All the same, it had been a frightful moment for them, when they sat side by side at early mass, and the Curé had preached against dancing, and hinted at the risks run as regards the next world by those who took part in such amusements. Geutruu did not know where to hide her head for shame, and kept bending lower and lower over her prayer-book. Mathis cast a furious glance at the preacher, but the latter stared at the couple till the whole congregation had turned their eyes in their direction; and Mathis himself at last, fiery red at one moment and deadly pale the next, cast down his eyes and bowed his head.
But now that he and Geutruu were home again, and counting the Brabant and Prussian cents—the groschen, half-francs, and couranten—which went to make up the payment for forty-two casks of beer, he exploded with laughter, and said, pointing to the money:
“Geutruu, the Curé may give us another sermon for that.”
Well, the people from the town had never troubled their heads about the Curé of Haffert’s preaching, and the peasants said, “If the burghers dance, why should we keep away?”
When All Saints’ Day came, Mathis and Geutruu went to confession as usual.
“If he speaks about the dancing, we’ll say that we don’t know yet what we’re going to do next year,” said Mathis at the church door.
However, it was not so easy to get absolution. The Curé was terribly angry, and the confession lasted more than half-an-hour; however, for this once, his reverence at last showed himself willing to lean to the side of mercy.
“But,” he added, “if you let the devil loose in my parish again next year, I can do nothing more for you.”