“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.
“And you don’t know the service that monks sing without saying a
word?”
“No.”
Thereupon the monk went through this said service for her, as it is
sung on great feast days, with all the grand effects used in
monasteries, the psalms well chanted in f major, the flaming tapers,
and the choristers, and explained to her the _Introit_, and also the
_ite missa est_, and departed, leaving her so sanctified that the
wrath of heaven would have great difficulty in discovering any portion
of the girl that was not thoroughly monasticated.
By his orders, Perrotte conducted him to Mademoiselle de Cande, the
lord’s sister, to whom he went in order to learn if it was her desire
to confess to him, because monks came so rarely to the castle. The
lady was delighted, as would any good Christian have been, at such a
chance of clearing out her conscience. Amador requested her to show
him her conscience, and she having allowed him to see that which he
considered the conscience of old maids, he found it in a bad state,
and told her that the sins of women were accomplished there; that to
be for the future without sin it was necessary to have the conscience
corked up by a monk’s indulgence. The poor ignorant lady having
replied that she did not know where these indulgences were to be had,
the monk informed her that he had a relic with him which enabled him
to grant one, that nothing was more indulgent than this relic, because
without saying a word it produced infinite pleasures, which is the
true, eternal and primary character of an indulgence. The poor lady
was so pleased with this relic, the virtue of which she tried in
various ways, that her brain became muddled, and she had so much faith
in it that she indulged as devoutly in indulgences as the Lady of
Cande had indulged in vengeances. This business of confession woke up
the younger Demoiselle de Cande, who came to watch the proceedings.
You may imagine that the monk had hoped for this occurrence, since his
mouth had watered at the sight of this fair blossom, whom he also
confessed, because the elder lady could not hinder him from bestowing
upon the younger one, who wished it, what remained of the indulgences.
But, remember, this pleasure was due to him for the trouble he had
taken. The morning having dawned, the pigs having eaten their tripe,
and the cats having become disenchanted with love, and having watered
all the places rubbed with herbs, Amador went to rest himself in his
bed, which Perrotte had put straight again. Every one slept, thanks to
the monk, so long, that no one in the castle was up before noon, which
was the dinner hour. The servants all believed the monk to be a devil
who had carried off the cats, the pigs, and also their masters. In
spite of these ideas however, every one was in the room at meal time.
“Come, my father,” said the chatelaine, giving her arm to the monk,
whom she put at her side in the baron’s chair, to the great
astonishment of the attendants, because the Sire of Cande said not a
word. “Page, give some of this to Father Amador,” said madame.
“Father Amador has need of so and so,” said the Demoiselle de Cande.
“Fill up Father Amador’s goblet,” said the sire.
“Father Amador has no bread,” said the little lady.
“What do you require, Father Amador?” said Perrotte.
It was Father Amador here, and Father Amador there. He was regaled
like a little maiden on her wedding night.
“Eat, father,” said madame; “you made such a bad meal yesterday.”
“Drink, father,” said the sire. “You are, s’blood! the finest monk I
have ever set eyes on.”
“Father Amador is a handsome monk,” said Perrotte.
“An indulgent monk,” said the demoiselle.
“A beneficent monk,” said the little one.
“A great monk,” said the lady.
“A monk who well deserves his name,” said the clerk of the castle.
Amador munched and chewed, tried all the dishes, lapped up the
hypocras, licked his chops, sneezed, blew himself out, strutted and
stamped about like a bull in a field. The others regarded him with
great fear, believing him to be a magician. Dinner over, the Lady of
Cande, the demoiselle, and the little one, besought the Sire of Cande
with a thousand fine arguments, to terminate the litigation. A great
deal was said to him by madame, who pointed out to him how useful a
monk was in a castle; by mademoiselle, who wished for the future to
polish up her conscience every day; by the little one, who pulled her
father’s beard, and asked that this monk might always be at Cande. If
ever the difference were arranged, it would be by the monk: the monk
was of a good understanding, gentle and virtuous as a saint; it was a
misfortune to be at enmity with a monastery containing such monks. If
all the monks were like him, the abbey would always have everywhere
the advantage of the castle, and would ruin it, because this monk was
very strong. Finally, they gave utterance to a thousand reasons, which
were like a deluge of words, and were so pluvially showered down that
the sire yielded, saying, that there would never be a moment’s peace
in the house until matters were settled to the satisfaction of the
women. Then he sent for the clerk, who wrote down for him, and also
for the monk. Then Amador surprised them exceedingly by showing them
the charters and the letters of credit, which would prevent the sire
and his clerk delaying this agreement. When the Lady of Cande saw them
about to put an end to this old case, she went to the linen chest to
get some fine cloth to make a new gown for her dear Amador. Every one
in the house had noticed how this old gown was worn, and it would have
been a great shame to leave such a treasure in such a worn-out case.
Everyone was eager to work at the gown. Madame cut it, the servant put
the hood on, the demoiselle sewed it, and the little demoiselle worked
at the sleeves. And all set so heartily to work to adorn the monk,
that the robe was ready by supper time, as was also the charter of
agreement prepared and sealed by the Sire de Cande.
“Ah, my father!” said the lady, “if you love us, you will refresh
yourself after your merry labour by washing yourself in a bath that I
have had heated by Perrotte.”
Amador was then bathed in scented water. When he came out he found a
new robe of fine linen and lovely sandals ready for him, which made
him appear the most glorious monk in the world.
Meanwhile the monks of Turpenay fearing for Amador, had ordered two of
their number to spy about the castle. These spies came round by the
moat, just as Perrotte threw Amador’s greasy old gown, with other
rubbish, into it. Seeing which, they thought that it was all over with
the poor madman. They therefore returned, and announced that it was
certain Amador had suffered martyrdom in the service of the abbey.
Hearing which the abbot ordered them to assemble in the chapel and
pray to God, in order to assist this devoted servant in his torments.
The monk having supped, put his charter into his girdle, and wished to
return to Turpenay. Then he found at the foot of the steps madame’s
mare, bridled and saddled, and held ready for him by a groom. The lord
had ordered his men-at-arms to accompany the good monk, so that no
accident might befall him. Seeing which, Amador pardoned the tricks of
the night before, and bestowed his benediction upon every one before
taking his departure from this converted place. Madame followed him
with her eyes, and proclaimed him a splendid rider. Perrotte declared
that for a monk he held himself more upright in the saddle than any of
the men-at-arms. Mademoiselle de Cande sighed. The little one wished
to have him for her confessor.
“He has sanctified the castle,” said they, when they were in the room
again.
When Amador and his suite came to the gates of the abbey, a scene of
terror ensued, since the guardian thought that the Sire de Cande had
had his appetite for monks whetted by the blood of poor Amador, and
wished to sack the abbey. But Amador shouted with his fine bass voice,
and was recognised and admitted into the courtyard; and when he
dismounted from madame’s mare there was enough uproar to make the
monks as a wild as April moons. They gave vent to shouts of joy in the
refectory, and all came to congratulate Amador, who waved the charter
over his head. The men-at-arms were regaled with the best wine in the
cellars, which was a present made to the monks of Turpenay by those of
Marmoustier, to whom belonged the lands of Vouvray. The good abbot
having had the document of the Sieur de Cande read, went about
saying--
“On these divine occasions there always appears the finger of God, to
whom we should render thanks.”
As the good abbot kept on at the finger of God, when thanking Amador,
the monk, annoyed to see the instrument of their delivery thus
diminished, said to him--
“Well, say that it is the arm, my father, and drop the subject.”
The termination of the trial between the Sieur de Cande and the abbey
of Turpenay was followed by a blessing which rendered him devoted to
the Church, because nine months after he had a son. Two years
afterwards Amador was chosen as abbot by the monks, who reckoned upon
a merry government with a madcap. But Amador become an abbot, became
steady and austere, because he had conquered his evil desires by his
labours, and recast his nature at the female forge, in which is that
fire which is the most perfecting, persevering, persistent,
perdurable, permanent, perennial, and permeating fire that there ever
was in the world. It is a fire to ruin everything, and it ruined so
well the evil that was in Amador, that it left only that which it
could not eat--that is, his wit, which was as clear as a diamond,
which is, as everyone knows, a residue of the great fire by which our
globe was formerly carbonised. Amador was then the instrument chosen
by Providence to reform our illustrious abbey, since he put everything
right there, watched night and day over his monks, made them all rise
at the hours appointed for prayers, counted them in chapel as a
shepherd counts his sheep, kept them well in hand, and punished their
faults severely, that he made them most virtuous brethren.
This teaches us to look upon womankind more as the instruments of our
salvation than of our pleasure. Besides which, this narrative teaches
us that we should never attempt to struggle with the Churchmen.
The king and the queen had found this tale in the best taste; the
courtiers confessed that they had never heard a better; and the ladies
would all willingly have been the heroines of it.