SAINT RIGOBERT was hungry. He had eaten nothing that morning, neither
had little Pierre, his serving lad, who trotted along before him on the
road to Rheims. They were going to visit Wibert, the Deputy-Governor of
Rheims, to pay him some money which the Bishop owed,--all the money
which he had in the world. And that is why they had nothing left to buy
them a breakfast, and why little Pierre gazed into the bakers' shops so
hungrily and licked his lips as they passed. Good Saint Rigobert did not
see the windows of buns and tarts and pasties as they went along, for
his eyes were bent upon the ground and he was singing hymns over to
himself under his breath. Still, he too was very faint.
Saint Rigobert was poor. He was a good old Bishop; but the King of
France did not love him, and had sent him away from the court and the
big, rich city to live among the poor folk in the country. Saint
Rigobert did not mind this very much, for he loved the pretty little
village of Gernicour where he lived. He loved the people who dwelled
there, too; and especially he loved Pierre, who had come to his home to
be his little page and helper.
The people of the village meant to be kind and generous; but they were
mostly stupid folk who saw only what was in front of their noses. And
they did not guess how very poor their dear Bishop was. They were poor,
too, and had to be careful of their little bits of money. But they all
had vegetables and milk and eggs and butter, and if every one had helped
a little, as they ought,--for he was always doing kind things for
them,--Saint Rigobert would not have gone hungry so often.
It made the Bishop sorry to find them so careless, but he never
complained. He would not tell them, nor beg them to help him, and often
even little Pierre did not know how long he fasted. For he would give
the boy all the supper and keep none himself. But he was always cheery
and contented. He always had a kind word for the people as he passed
them on the street. And when he went to the big town of Rheims near by
he never complained to the Governor there about what a poor, miserable
parish he lived in, or how little the people of Gernicour did for their
Bishop. For he liked to believe that they did the best they could.
And that is why, when the two came into Wibert's hall, Saint Rigobert
paid the money to the Governor without a word of his hunger or his
faintness. And even when he saw the great table laid for dinner and the
smoking dishes brought in by a procession of serving men, he turned away
resolutely and tried not to show how tempting the good things looked and
smelled. He gathered up the folds of his robe, and taking his Bishop's
staff in his hand, rose to go back to Gernicour and his dinnerless
house. But as they were leaving the hall, Pierre trailing out very
reluctantly with many a backward look, Wibert the governor called them
back. Perhaps he had seen the longing in the eyes of little Pierre as
the great haunch of venison was set on the board. Perhaps he had noticed
how pale and hollow Saint Rigobert's cheeks were, and half guessed the
cause. At all events he said kindly:--
"I pray thee, stay and dine with us, thou and the boy yonder. See, the
meat is ready, and there is room for many more at table."
But Saint Rigobert had a service to hold in the church at Gernicour, and
knew they had barely time to reach home if they walked briskly. Besides,
he was too proud to accept charity, and for the sake of his people he
feared to let the Governor see how very hungry he was.
"Nay," he answered gently, "I thank thee for thy courtesy, friend
Wibert. But we may not tarry. The time scants us for a dinner before the
service in the church at Gernicour, and we must hasten or we be late.
Come, lad, we must be stirring anon."
Tears of disappointment were standing in Pierre's eyes, he wanted so
much to stay and have some of that good dinner. But he never thought of
questioning his master's commands. The Governor pressed them to stay,
but Rigobert was firm, and passed on to the door, Pierre following
sulkily behind. But just as they reached the door there was a commotion
outside, and the sound of quacking and men's laughter. And there came in
a serving man bearing in his arms a great white goose, which was
flapping his wings and cackling hoarsely in fright.
"Ho, what have we here?" said the Governor crossly. "Why do you let such
a commotion into my hall, you fellow?"
"Please you, sir," answered the serving man as well as he could with the
goose struggling in his arms, "this goose is a tribute from the widow
Rene, and she begs your Honor to accept him as a poor present."
"A poor present indeed," said the Governor testily. "What do I want of
the creature? We have more fowls now than we know what to do with. I
wish him not." Then an idea came into his head, and he turned to Saint
Rigobert. "Why, reverend sir," he said laughing, "since you will not
stay to dine with me, I prithee take this fat fellow home with you, for
dinner in Gernicour. 'T will be a good riddance for us, in sooth."
Saint Rigobert hesitated. But seeing the look of eagerness in Pierre's
face he concluded to accept the gift, which was a common one enough in
those days.
"Grammercy for your courtesy, Master Wibert," he answered. "We take your
bounty of the fine goose, since it seemeth that your tables have space
for little more. Now then, Pierre lad, take up thy prey. And look he
bite thee not," he added as the boy made haste to seize the great
struggling bird.
The goose pecked and squawked and flapped horribly while Pierre was
getting his arms about him. But finally they were ready to start, Pierre
going first with the goose who was nearly as big as himself, and the
Bishop following grasping his staff, his eyes bent upon the ground.
Pierre's heart was full of joy. He chuckled and laughed and could hardly
wait till they should reach home, for thinking of the fine dinner at the
end of the road. But Saint Rigobert had already forgotten the goose, he
had so many other things to think about. That is the way he had taught
himself to forget how hungry he was--he just thought about something
else. But all on a sudden Rigobert was startled by a great cackle and a
scream in front of him down the road. He looked up just in time to see a
big white thing sailing away into the sky, and Pierre hopping up and
down in the road screaming and crying.
The Bishop overtook the little fellow quickly. "Lad, lad, hast thou lost
thy goose?" he asked gently.
"Oh Father," sobbed the boy, "our nice dinner! Your dinner, master! The
wicked goose has flown away. Oh, what a careless boy I am to let him
'scape me so!" And he sat down on a stone and cried as if his heart
would break.
"Nay, nay," the good Bishop said, patting him on the head soothingly,
"perhaps the poor goose did not want to be roasted, Pierre. Can you
blame him for seeking his liberty instead? I find no fault with him; but
I am sorry for thy dinner, lad. We must try to get something else. Cheer
up, Pierre, let the white goose go. All will yet be well, lad."
He made Pierre get up, still crying bitterly, and on they trudged again
along the dusty road. But this time there was no dinner for them to
look forward to, and the way seemed very long. Pierre dragged his feet
heavily, and it seemed as if he could not go another step with that
emptiness in his stomach and the ache in his head. But again Saint
Rigobert began to hum his hymns softly under his breath, keeping time to
the beat of his aged feet on the dusty road. The loss of his dinner
seemed to trouble him little. Perhaps he was secretly glad that the poor
goose had escaped; for he was very tender-hearted and loved not to have
creatures killed, even for food.
They had gone quite a little distance, and Rigobert began to sing louder
and louder as they neared his church. When suddenly there came a strange
sound in the air over his head. And then with a great fluttering a big
white goose came circling down right before Saint Rigobert's feet. The
good Saint stopped short in surprise, and Pierre, turning about, could
hardly believe his eyes. But sure enough, there was the very same goose,
looking up into Saint Rigobert's face and cackling as if trying to tell
him something.
"I didn't mean to run away," he seemed to say. "I didn't know you were
hungry, holy man, and that I was taking away your dinner. Sing on and I
will follow you home."
Pierre turned and ran back to the goose and would have seized him by the
neck so he could not get away again. But Saint Rigobert held up his
finger warningly, and the boy stood still.
"Do not touch him, Pierre," said the Bishop earnestly. "I do not think
he will run away. Let us see."
And sure enough, when they started on once more, Saint Rigobert still
singing softly, Pierre, who kept glancing back, saw the goose waddling
slowly at his master's heels. So the queer little procession came into
Gernicour; and every one stopped along the streets with open mouths,
wondering to see them pass. At last they reached the Bishop's house. And
there Rigobert ceased his singing, and turning to the goose stroked his
feathers gently and said:--
"Good friend, thou hast been faithful. Thou shalt be rewarded. Aye,
ruffle up thy feathers, good goose, for they shall never be plucked
from thee, nor shalt thou be cooked for food. Thou art my friend from
to-day. No pen shall hold thee, but thou shalt follow me as thou wilt."
And the Saint kept his promise. For after that the goose lived with him
in happiness and peace. They would take long walks together in the
fields about Gernicour. They made visits to the sick and the sorrowful.
Indeed, wherever Saint Rigobert went the goose followed close at his
heels like a dog. Even when Rigobert went again to see the Governor of
Rheims, the goose waddled all the way there and back along the crooked
road over part of which he had gone that first time in little Pierre's
arms. And how the Governor did laugh as he stood in his door and watched
the strange pair disappear down the road.
"He could not have been very hungry after all," the Governor thought,
"or I should never have seen that goose again." Which shows how little
even a Governor knows about some things.
More than this, whenever Rigobert went to hold service in his little
church the goose escorted him there also. But he knew better than to go
inside. He would wait by the porch, preening his feathers in the
sunshine and snapping bugs in the grass of the churchyard until his dear
master came out. And then he would escort him back home again. He was a
very well-mannered goose.
But dear me! All this time I have left poor little Pierre standing with
a quivering chin outside the Bishop's door, hopeless of a dinner. But it
all came right, just as the Bishop had said it would. I must tell you
about that. For when Rigobert returned from church that same day feeling
very faint and hungry indeed, after the long walk and the excitement of
the goose-hap, Pierre came running out to meet him with a smiling face.
"Oh Father, Father!" he cried. "We are to have a dinner, after all. Come
quick, I am so hungry I cannot wait! The village folk have heard about
the pious goose who came back to be your dinner, and how you would not
eat him. And so they have sent us a basket of good things instead. And
they promise that never again so long as they have anything to eat
themselves shall we be hungry any more. Oh Father! I am so glad we did
not eat the goose."
And good Saint Rigobert laid his hand on Pierre's head and said, "Dear
lad, you will never be sorry for showing kindness to a friendly bird or
beast." Then the goose came quacking up to them and they all three went
into the house together to eat their good, good dinner.