"I said nought. Ay, here 'tis."
"Nay, your reverence. You surely spoke: you said, 'At their old tricks
again!'"
"Said I so in sooth?" and his reverence smiled. He then proceeded to
broach the wine, and filled a cup for each. Then he put a log of wood on
the fire, for stoves were none in Burgundy. "And so I said 'At their old
tricks!' did I? Come, sip the good wine, and, whilst it lasts, story for
story, I care not if I tell you a little tale."
Gerard's eyes sparkled.
"Thou lovest a story?"
"As my life."
"Nay, but raise not thine expectations too high, neither. 'Tis but a
foolish trifle compared with thine adventures."
THE CURE'S TALE.
"Once upon a time, then, in the kingdom of France, and in the duchy
of Burgundy, and not a day's journey from the town where now we sit
a-sipping of old Medoc, there lived a cure. I say he lived; but barely.
The parish was small, the parishioners greedy; and never gave their
cure a doit more than he could compel. The nearer they brought him to a
disembodied spirit by meagre diet, the holier should be his prayers in
their behalf. I know not if this was their creed, but their practice
gave it colour.
"At last he pickled a rod for them.
"One day the richest farmer in the place had twins to baptize. The cure
was had to the christening dinner as usual; but ere he would baptize
the children, he demanded, not the christening fees only, but the burial
fees.
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