At the rate he was going he would have made all of us our fortunes. He married off two of our sisters, and a few other girls in the village, and married them off well at that. He couldn’t walk down the streets without fathers, mothers and children all running up to him and shouting out: ‘Good day, Friar Jean! How are you, Friar Jean?’

It is certain that whenever he went into a house God’s blessing went with him and wherever there was a girl she’d be married two months after his visit! Poor Friar Jean. Ambition was his downfall.

The Procurator of the House where Jean was assistant was old. The monks said that it was Jean’s plan to succeed him after his death, and that, to this end, he turned the deed room upside down, burnt all the old registers and made up new ones in such a way that on the death of the old Procurator the devil himself would have been unable to make head or tail of the community’s papers. If ever anyone needed a document he’d have to spend a month looking for it and then often it couldn’t be found at all. The monks worked out what Friar Jean was up to and what his aim was. They took the thing very seriously and Friar Jean, instead of being procurator, as he flattered himself he would be, was reduced to bread and water and disciplined to the point where he eventually gave up the secret of his registers to someone else. Monks are merciless. When they had got all the enlightenment they needed from Friar Jean they made him the coal carrier for the laboratory where they made Carmelite liqueur. Friar Jean, former treasurer of the order and deputy procurator, now a coal carrier! Friar Jean had a stout heart but he could not tolerate his fall from importance and splendour and he was only waiting for the opportunity to escape from this humiliation.

Now at about this time there arrived at the monastery a young monk who was accepted as the wonder of the order in the confessional and the pulpit. He was called Friar Angel. He had beautiful eyes, a handsome face, and the arms and hands of a sculptor’s model. There he was preaching sermons and more sermons, hearing confessions and more confessions and the old spiritual directors were abandoned by their female congregation who flocked to the young Friar Angel. The eve of every Sunday and feast day, Friar Angel’s confessional was surrounded by more and more penitents while the old fathers waited fruitlessly for business in their deserted confessionals which upset them a great deal… But, Monsieur, if perhaps I left the story of Friar Jean and carried on with the story of my loves, it might be more cheerful.

MASTER: No, no. Let’s take a pinch of snuff, see what time it is and carry on.

JACQUES: All right, if that’s what you want…

But Jacques’ horse was of another opinion. All of a sudden it took the bit between its teeth and charged into a ditch. Jacques dug his knees into the beast’s side and pulled back hard on the reins but it was all to no avail and the stubborn animal hurled itself out of the bottom of the ditch and started climbing as fast as it could to the top of a hillock where it stopped dead and where Jacques, looking around, found himself to be between the forks of a gallows.

Anyone other than myself, Reader, would not miss the opportunity of dressing up the gallows with its prey and arranging a sad reunion for Jacques. And if I were to tell you something of this sort you might well believe it because there are stranger things in life but it wouldn’t be any the more true for that. The gallows was empty.

Jacques allowed his horse to get its breath back and then the animal, of its own accord, went back down the hillock, crossed over to the other side of the ditch and brought Jacques back alongside his master, who said to him: ‘Ah! My friend! What a fright you gave me! I thought you were going to be killed… But you’re dreaming! What are you thinking about?’

JACQUES: About what I found up there.

MASTER: And what did you find up there?

JACQUES: A gallows. A gibbet.

MASTER: The devil you did! That’s a bad omen. But remember your doctrine. If it is written up above, then no matter what you do you’ll be hanged, my dear friend. And if it isn’t written up above, the horse is a liar. If that beast isn’t inspired he’s suffering from delusions. I should be careful if I were you.

After a moment’s silence Jacques rubbed his forehead and shook his head, as people do when they’re trying to stop themselves thinking about something nasty, and carried on abruptly:

The old monks held a conference amongst themselves and resolved that no matter what the cost and no matter what means they had to use they would get rid of this young upstart who was humiliating them. Do you know what they did?… Master, you’re not listening to me.

MASTER: I’m listening. I’m listening. Carry on.

JACQUES: They bribed the porter, who was an old rascal like them. This old rascal accused the young priest of having taken liberties with one of the ladies of the congregation in the visiting room and swore on oath that he’d seen it.