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

must question you privately on this untoward business.” He took him into a private room and bade the officer stand outside and guard the door, and be ready to come if called. The big constable stood outside the door, quaking, and expecting to see the room fly away and leave a stink of brimstone. Instantly they were alone the cure unlocked his countenance and was himself again.

“Show me the trick on't,” said he, all curiosity.

“I cannot, sir, unless the room be darkened.”

The cure speedily closed out the light with a wooden shutter. “Now, then.”

“But on what shall I put it?” said Gerard. “Here is no dead face. 'Twas that made it look so dire.” The cure groped about the room. “Good; here is an image: 'tis my patron saint.”

“Heaven forbid! That were profanation.”

“Pshaw! 'twill rub off, will't not?”

“Ay, but it goes against me to take such liberty with a saint,” objected the sorcerer.

“Fiddlestick!” said the divine.

“To be sure by putting it on his holiness will show your reverence it is no Satanic art.”

“Mayhap 'twas for that I did propose it.” said the cure subtly.

Thus encouraged, Gerard fired the eyes and nostrils of the image and made the cure jump. Then lighted up the hair in patches; and set the whole face shining like a glow-worm's.

“By'r Lady,” shouted the cure, “'tis strange, and small my wonder that they took you for a magician, seeing a dead face thus fired. Now come thy ways with me!”

He put on his grey gown and great hat, and in a few minutes they found themselves in presence of the alderman. By his side, poisoning his mind, stood the accuser, a singular figure in red hose and red shoes, a black gown with blue bands, and a cocked hat.

After saluting the alderman, the cure turned to this personage and said good-humouredly, “So, Mangis, at thy work again, babbling away honest men's lives! Come, your worship, this is the old tale! two of a trade can ne'er agree. Here is Mangis, who professes sorcery, and would sell himself to Satan to-night, but that Satan is not so weak as buy what he can have gratis, this Mangis, who would be a sorcerer, but is only a quacksalver, accuses of magic a true lad, who did but use in self-defence a secret of chemistry well-known to me and all churchmen.”

“But he is no churchman, to dabble in such mysteries,” objected the alderman.

“He is more churchman than layman, being convent bred, and in the lesser orders,” said the ready cure. “Therefore, sorcerer, withdraw thy plaint without more words!”

“That I will not, your reverence,” replied Mangis stoutly. “A sorcerer I am, but a white one, not a black one. I make no pact with Satan, but on the contrary still battle him with lawful and necessary arts, I ne'er profane the sacraments, as do the black sorcerers, nor turn myself into a cat and go sucking infants' blood, nor e'en their breath, nor set dead men o' fire. I but tell the peasants when their cattle and their hens are possessed, and at what time of the moon to plant rye, and what days in each month are lucky for wooing of women and selling of bullocks and so forth: above all, it is my art and my trade to detect the black magicians, as I did that whole tribe of them who were burnt at Dol but last year.”

“Ay, Mangis. And what is the upshot of that famous fire thy tongue did kindle?”

“Why, their ashes were cast to the wind.”

“Ay. But the true end of thy comedy is this. The parliament of Dijon hath since sifted the matter, and found they were no sorcerers, but good and peaceful citizens; and but last week did order masses to be said for their souls, and expiatory farces and mysteries to be played for them in seven towns of Burgundy; all which will not of those cinders make men and women again. Now 'tis our custom in this land, when we have slain the innocent by hearkening false knaves like thee, not to blame our credulous ears, but the false tongue that gulled them. Therefore bethink thee that, at a word from me to my lord bishop, thou wilt smell burning pine nearer than e'er knave smelt it and lived, and wilt travel on a smoky cloud to him whose heart thou bearest (for the word devil in the Latin it meaneth 'false accuser'), and whose livery thou wearest.”

And the cure pointed at Mangis with his staff.

“That is true i'fegs,” said the alderman, “for red and black be the foul fiendys colours.”

By this time the white sorcerer's cheek was as colourless as his dress was fiery. Indeed the contrast amounted to pictorial. He stammered out, “I respect Holy Church and her will; he shall fire the churchyard, and all in it, for me: I do withdraw the plaint.”

“Then withdraw thyself,” said the vice-bailiff.

The moment he was gone the cure took the conversational tone, and told the alderman courteously that the accused had received the chemical substance from Holy Church, and had restored it her, by giving it all to him.

“Then 'tis in good hands,” was the reply; “young man, you are free. Let me have your reverence's prayers.”

“Doubt it not! Humph! Vice-baillie, the town owes me four silver franks, this three months and more.”

“They shall be paid, cure, ay, ere the week be out.”

On this good understanding Church and State parted. As soon as he was in the street Gerard caught the priest's hand, and kissed it.

“Oh, sir! Oh, your reverence. You have saved me from the fiery stake. What can I say, what do? what?”

“Nought, foolish lad. Bounty rewards itself. Natheless—Humph?—I wish I had done't without leasing. It ill becomes my function to utter falsehoods.”

“Falsehood, sir?” Gerard was mystified.

“Didst not hear me say thou hadst given me that same phosphorus? 'Twill cost me a fortnight's penance, that light word.” The cure sighed, and his eye twinkled cunningly.

“Nay, nay,” cried Gerard eagerly. “Now Heaven forbid! That was no falsehood, father: well you knew the phosphorus was yours, is yours.” And he thrust the bottle into the cure's hand. “But alas, 'tis too poor a gift: will you not take from my purse somewhat for Holy Church?” and now he held out his purse with glistening eyes.

“Nay,” said the other brusquely, and put his hands quickly behind him; “not a doit. Fie! fie! art pauper et exul. Come thou rather each day at noon and take thy diet with me; for my heart warms to thee;” and he went off very abruptly with his hands behind him.

They itched.

But they itched in vain.