The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reade (most interesting books to read .TXT) 📕

another assailant; and the chivalrous Denys, to console and support “the weaker vessel,” the iron kettle among the clay pots, administered his consigne, “Courage, ma mie, le—-” etc.

She turned on him directly. “How can he be dead as long as there is an archer left alive?” (General laughter at her ally's expense.)

“It is 'washing day,' my masters,” said she, with sudden gravity.

“Apres? We travellers cannot strip and go bare while you wash our clothes,” objected a peevish old fellow by the fireside, who had kept mumchance during the raillery, but crept out into the sunshine of commonplaces.

“I aimed not your way, ancient man,” replied Marion superciliously. “But since you ask me” (here she scanned him slowly from head to foot), “I trow you might take a turn in the tub, clothes and all, and no harm done” (laughter). “But what I spoke for, I thought this young sire might like his beard starched.”

Poor Gerard's turn had come; his chin crop was thin and silky.

The loudest of all the laughers this time was the traitor Denys, whose beard was of a good length, and singularly stiff and bristly; so that Shakespeare, though he never saw him, hit him in the bull's eye.

“Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard.” —As You Like It.

Gerard bore the Amazonian satire mighty calmly. He had little personal vanity. “Nay, 'chambriere,'” said he, with a smile, “mine is all unworthy your pains; take you this fair growth in hand!” and he pointed to Denys's vegetable.

“Oh, time for that, when I starch the besoms.”

Whilst they were all shouting over this palpable hit, the mistress returned, and in no more time than it took her to cross the threshold, did our Amazon turn to a seeming Madonna meek and mild.

Mistresses are wonderful subjugators. Their like I think breathes not on the globe. Housemaids, decide! It was a waste of histrionic ability though; for the landlady had heard, and did not at heart disapprove, the peals of laughter.

“Ah, Marion, lass,” said she good-humouredly, “if you laid me an egg every time you cackle, 'L'es Trois Poissons' would never lack an omelet.”

“Now, dame,” said Gerard, “what is to pay?”

“What for?”

“Our supper.”

“Where is the hurry? cannot you be content to pay when you go? lose the guest, find the money, is the rule of 'The Three Fish.'”

“But, dame, outside 'The Three Fish' it is thus written—'Ici-on ne loge—”

“Bah! Let that flea stick on the wall! Look hither,” and she pointed to the smoky ceiling, which was covered with hieroglyphics. These were accounts, vulgo scores; intelligible to this dame and her daughter, who wrote them at need by simply mounting a low stool, and scratching with a knife so as to show lines of ceiling through the deposit of smoke. The dame explained that the writing on the wall was put there to frighten moneyless folk from the inn altogether, or to be acted on at odd times when a non-paying face should come in and insist on being served. “We can't refuse them plump, you know. The law forbids us.”

“And how know you mine is not such a face?”

“Out fie! it is the best face that has entered 'The Three Fish' this autumn.”

“And mine, dame?” said Denys; “dost see no knavery here?”

She eyed him calmly. “Not such a good one as the lad's; nor ever will be. But it is the face of a true man. For all that,” added she drily, “an I were ten years younger, I'd as lieve not meet that face on a dark night too far from home.”

Gerard stared. Denys laughed. “Why, dame, I would but sip the night dew off the flower; and you needn't take ten years off, nor ten days, to be worth risking a scratched face for.”

“There, our mistress,” said Marion, who had just come in, “said I not t'other day you could make a fool of them still, an if you were properly minded?”

“I dare say ye did; it sounds like some daft wench's speech.”

“Dame,” said Gerard, “this is wonderful.”

“What? Oh! no, no, that is no wonder at all. Why, I have been here all my life; and reading faces is the first thing a girl picks up in an inn.”

Marion. “And frying eggs the second; no, telling lies; frying eggs is the third, though.”

The Mistress. “And holding her tongue the last, and modesty the day after never at all.”

Marion. “Alack! Talk of my tongue. But I say no more. She under whose wing I live now deals the blow. I'm sped—'tis but a chambermaid gone. Catch what's left on't!” and she staggered and sank backwards on to the handsomest fellow in the room, which happened to be Gerard.

“Tic! tic!” cried he peevishly; “there, don't be stupid! that is too heavy a jest for me. See you not I am talking to the mistress?”

Marion resumed her elasticity with a grimace, made two little bounds into the middle of the floor, and there turned a pirouette. “There, mistress,” said she, “I give in; 'tis you that reigns supreme with the men, leastways with male children.”

“Young man,” said the mistress, “this girl is not so stupid as her deportment; in reading of faces, and frying of omelets, there we are great. 'Twould be hard if we failed at these arts, since they are about all we do know.”

“You do not quite take me, dame,” said Gerard. “That honesty in a face should shine forth to your experienced eye, that seems reasonable: but how by looking on Denys here could you learn his one little foible, his insanity, his miserable mulierosity?” Poor Gerard got angrier the more he thought of it.

“His mule—his what?” (crossing herself with superstitious awe at the polysyllable).

“Nay, 'tis but the word I was fain to invent for him.”

“Invent? What, can a child like you make other words than grow in Burgundy by nature? Take heed what ye do! why, we are overrun with them already, especially bad ones. Lord, these be times. I look to hear of a new thistle invented next.”

“Well then, dame, mulierose—that means wrapped up, body and soul, in women. So prithee tell me; how did you ever detect the noodle's mulierosity?”

“Alas! good youth, you make a mountain of a molehill. We that are women be notice-takers; and out of the tail of our eye see more than most men can, glaring through a prospect glass. Whiles I move to and fro doing this and that, my glance is still on my guests, and I did notice that this soldier's eyes were never off the womenfolk: my daughter, or Marion,