it to a little inn hard by, and now the inn's face
was like the starry firmament. 'D'ye hear that, my man?' cries she,
'"The Three Frogs" have been and painted up their armories; shall "The
Four Hedgehogs" be outshone by them?' So I painted, and my master stood
by like a lord, advising me how to do, and winking to me to heed him
none, and I got a silver franc. And he took me back to 'The Three
Frogs,' and on the way put me on a beard and disguised me, and
flattered 'The Three Frogs,' and told them how he had adorned 'The Four
Hedgehogs,' and into the net jumped the three poor simple frogs, and I
earned another silver franc. Then we went on and he found his crutches,
and sent me forward, and showed his "cicatrices d'emprunt," as he called
them, and all his infirmities, at 'The Four Hedgehogs,' and got both
food and money. 'Come, share and share,' quoth he: so I gave him one
franc. 'I have made a good bargain,' said he. 'Art a master limner, but
takest too much time.' So I let him know that in matters of honest craft
things could not be done quick and well. 'Then do them quick,' quoth he.
And he told me my name was Bon Bec; and I might call him Cul de Jatte,
because that was his lay at our first meeting. And at the next town my
master, Cul de Jatte, bought me a psaltery, and set himself up again
by the roadside in state like him that erst judged Marsyas and Apollo,
piping for vain glory. So I played a strain. 'Indifferent well,
harmonious Bon Bec,' said he haughtily. 'Now tune thy pipes.' So I did
sing a sweet strain the good monks taught me; and singing it reminded
poor Bon Bec, Gerard erst, of his young days and home, and brought the
water to my een. But looking up, my master's visage was as the face of
a little boy whipt soundly, or sipping foulest medicine. 'Zounds, stop
that bellyache blether,' quoth he, 'that will ne'er wile a stiver out
o' peasants' purses; 'twill but sour the nurses' milk, and gar the kine
jump into rivers to be out of earshot on't. What, false knave, did I buy
thee a fine new psaltery to be minded o' my latter end withal? Hearken!
these be the songs that glad the heart, and fill the minstrel's purse.'
And he sung so blasphemous a stave, and eke so obscene, as I drew away
from him a space that the lightning might not spoil the new psaltery.
However, none came, being winter, and then I said, 'Master, the Lord
is debonair. Held I the thunder, yon ribaldry had been thy last, thou
foul-mouthed wretch.'