The Legend of Ulenspiegel Volume I Part 36

"The Holy Father deigned to address me again: 'Ulenspiegel,' said he, 'thou dost look upon my dog; he was seized with a rheum and other maladies through gnawing the bones of heretics that had been broken for them. Cure him, my son; thou wilt have much good thereby.'"

"Drink," said the old woman.

"Pour out," answered Ulenspiegel. Continuing his tale: "I purged the dog," said he, "by the aid of a wonder-working draught concocted by myself. He made water through this for three days and three nights without ceasing, and was cured."

"Jesus G.o.d en Maria!" said the old woman; "let me kiss thee, glorious pilgrim, who hast seen the Pope and mayst also cure my dog."

But Ulenspiegel, recking little of the old woman's kisses, said to her: "Those who have touched with their lips the holy slipper may not within a s.p.a.ce of two years receive the kisses of any woman. First give me for supper some goodly carbonadoes, a black pudding or so, and a sufficiency of beer, and I shall make your dog's voice so clear that he will be able to chant the aves in e la in the rood-loft of the great church."

"May it be true what thou sayest," whined the old woman, "and I shall give thee a florin."

"I shall accomplish it," said Ulenspiegel, "but only after supper."

She served him all he had asked for. He ate and drank his fill, and he would even have embraced the old woman for grat.i.tude of his jaw, had it not been for what he had said to her.

While he was eating, the old dog put his paws on his knee to have a bone. Ulenspiegel gave him several; then he said to his hostess:

"If a man had eaten in your inn and not paid, what would you do?"

"I would have his best garment off that robber," answered the old woman.

"'Tis well," replied Ulenspiegel; then he took the dog under his arm and went into the stable. There he shut him up along with a bone, took the dead dog's skin out of his satchel, and coming back to the old woman, he asked her if she had said she would have his best garment off the man who would refuse to pay for his meal.

"Well, then, your dog dined with me and did not pay: so I have, following your own rede, taken his best and his only coat."

And he showed her the skin of the dead dog.

"Ah!" said the old woman, weeping, "it is cruel of thee, master doctor. Poor old dog! he was my child to me, a poor widow. Why didst thou take from me the only friend I had in the world? I have no more now to do but to die."

"I will bring him to life again," said Ulenspiegel.

"Bring him to life!" said she. "And he will fawn on me again, and he will look at me again, and he will lick me again, and he will wag his poor old stump of a tail again when he looks at me! Do this, master doctor, and thou shalt have dined here gratis, a most costly dinner, and I shall give thee a florin still over and above the bargain."

"I will bring him to life again," said Ulenspiegel; "but I must have hot water, syrup to glue the seams together, a needle and thread and sauce from the carbonadoes; and I would be alone during the operation."

The old woman gave him what he asked for; he took up the skin of the dead dog and went off to the stable.

There he smeared the old dog's muzzle with sauce, and the brute submitted to it with delight; he drew a great stripe of syrup under his belly, put syrup on his paws and sauce on his tail.

Then crying out loudly three times, he said: "Staet op! staet op! ik bevel 't, vuilen hond!"

And then lightly putting the dead dog's skin in his satchel he fetched the living dog a great kick and so pitched him into the inn chamber.

The old woman, seeing her dog alive and licking himself, was eager to embrace him; but Ulenspiegel did not permit this.

"You may not," said he, "caress this dog until he has washed off with his tongue all the syrup with which he is anointed; only then will the seams in the skin be closed up. Count out to me now my ten florins."

"I said one," answered the old woman.

"One for the operation, nine for the resurrection," replied Ulenspiegel.

She counted them out to him. Ulenspiegel went off, flinging into the inn chamber the skin of the dead dog and saying:

"There, woman, keep his old skin: it will serve you to patch up the new one when it will have holes in it."

LXVII

On that Sunday at Bruges was held the procession of the Blessed Blood. Claes said to his wife and to Nele to go to see it and that mayhap they might find Ulenspiegel in the town. As for himself, said he, he would keep the cottage if the pilgrim should perchance return thither.

The two women went off together; Claes, remaining at Damme, sate on the doorstep and found the town very empty and deserted. He heard nothing except the crystalline chime of some village bell, while from Bruges there came to him by fits and starts the music of the carillons and a great din of falconets and fireworks let off in honour of the Blessed Blood.

Claes, looking pensively for Ulenspiegel along the roads, saw nothing, only the sky pure and blue and cloudless, a few dogs lying tongue out in the sun, bold sparrows bathing and twittering in the dust, a cat spying after them, and the sunlight entering every house like a friend and making the bra.s.s kettles and pewter tankards on every dresser glisten and s.h.i.+ne.

But Claes was downcast amid all this glee, and looking for his son he sought to see him behind the gray mist along the meadows, to hear him in the glad rustling of the leaves and the gay concert of the birds in the trees. Suddenly he saw on the road from Maldeghem a man of great stature, and knew it was not Ulenspiegel. He saw him pause at the edge of a field of carrots and eat eagerly.

"There's a man mightily an-hungered," said Claes.

Having lost sight of him for a moment, he saw him reappear at the corner of the street of the Heron, and he recognized the messenger from Josse who had brought him the seven hundred gold carolus. He went to him in the highway and said:

"Come to my house."

The man replied:

"Blessed are they that are kind to the wandering travelling man."

On the outer sill of the cottage window there was crumbled bread that Soetkin kept for the birds of the neighbourhood. Here they came in the winter to find their food. The man caught up these crumbs and ate them.

"You are hungry and thirsty," said Claes.

The man replied:

"Since I was stripped by robbers a week past, I have lived only on carrots from the fields and roots in the woods."

"It is then," said Claes, "time to indulge in feasting. And here," said he, opening the cupboard, "here is a full bowlful of peas, eggs, black puddings, hams, sausage of Ghent, waterzoey: hotchpotch of fish. Below, in the cellar, sleeps Louvain wine, made in the manner of the wines of Burgundy, red and clear as a ruby; it asks but the awakening of gla.s.ses. Come, now, let us put a f.a.ggot on the fire. Do you hear the black puddings sizzling on the grid? 'Tis the song of good feeding."

Claes, turning them over, said to the man:

"Have you not seen my boy Ulenspiegel?"

"Nay," he answered.

"Do you bring me any tidings of my brother Josse?" said Claes, putting upon the table grilled puddings, an omelette of fat ham, cheese, and great tankards, and red clear wine of Louvain sparkling in the flasks.

The man replied: