University of Virginia Library

4. MARTIN FRANC
AND
THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY.

4. MARTIN FRANC
AND
THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY.

In times of old there lived in the city of
Rouen a tradesman, named Martin Franc,
who, by a series of misfortunes, had been reduced
from oppulence to poverty. But poverty,
which generally makes men humble and laborious,
only served to make him proud and lazy:
and in proportion as he grew poorer and poorer,
he grew also prouder and lazier. He contrived,
however, to live along from day to day, by
now and then pawning a silken robe of his wife,
or selling a silver spoon, or some other trifle
saved from the wreck of his better fortune;

and passed his time pleasantly enough in
loitering about the market place, and walking
up and down on the sunny side of the street.

The fair Marguerite, his wife, was celebrated
through the whole city for her beauty, her
wit, and her virtue. She was a brunette, with
the blackest eye—the whitest teeth—and the
ripest nut-brown cheek in all Normandy;—her
figure was tall and stately—her hands and feet
most delicately moulded—and her swimming
gait like the motion of a swan. In happier days
she had been the delight of the richest tradesmen
in the city, and the envy of the fairest
dames; and when she became poor, her fame
was not a little increased by her cruelty to
several substantial burghers, who, without
consulting their wives, had generously offered
to stand between her husband and bankruptcy,
and do all in their power to raise a worthy
and respectable family.

The friends of Martin Franc, like the
friends of many a ruined man before and since,
deserted him in the day of adversity. Of all
that had eaten his dinners, and drunk his wine,
and philandered with his wife, none sought the

narrow alley and humble dwelling of the broken
tradesman, save one; and that one was
Friar Gui, the sacristan of the Abbey of Saint
Anthony. He was a little, jolly, red-faced
friar, with a leer in his eye, and rather a naughty
reputation for a man of his cloth; but as he
was a kind of travelling gazette and always
brought the latest news and gossip of the city,
and besides was the only person that condescended
to visit the house of Martin Franc,—
in fine, for the want of a better, he was considered
in the light of a friend.

In these constant assiduities, Friar Gui had
his secret motives, of which the single heart
of Martin Franc was entirely unsuspicious.
The keener eye of his wife, however, soon
discovered two faces under the hood. She
observed that the Friar generally timed his
visits so as to be at the house when Martin
Franc was not at home,—that he seemed to
prefer the edge of the evening,—and that as
his visits became more frequent he always had
some little apology ready, such as `being obliged
to pass that way, he could not go by the
door without just dropping in to see how the

good man Martin did.'—Occasionally, too, he
ventured to bring her some ghostly present—
such as a picture of the Madonna and child,
or one of those little naked images, which
are hawked about the streets at the Nativity.
Though the object of all this was but too obvious,
yet the fair Marguerite perserved in
misconstruing the Friar's intentions, and in dexterously
turning aside any expressions of gallantry
that fell from his venerable lips. In this
way Friar Gui was for a long time kept at
bay; and Martin Franc preserved in the day
of poverty and distress, that consolation of all
this world's afflictions—a friend. But finally
things came to such a pass that the honest
tradesman opened his eyes, and wondered he
had been asleep so long. Whereupon he was
irreverend enough to tweak the nose of Friar
Gui, and then to thrust him into the street by
the shoulders.

Meanwhile the times grew worse and
worse. One family relic followed another;—
the last silken robe was pawned:—the last
silver spoon sold; until at length poor Martin
Franc was forced to `drag the devil by the

tail;'—in other words, beggary stared him full
in the face. But the fair Marguerite did not
even then despair. In those days a belief in
the immediate guardianship of the saints, was
much more strong and prevalent than in these
lewd and degenerate times; and as there
seemed no great probability of improving
their condition by any lucky change, which
could be brought about by mere human agency,
she determined to try what could be done
by intercession with the patron saint of her
husband. Accordingly she repaired one evening
to the Abbey of Saint Anthony, to place a
votive candle and offer her prayer at the altar,
which stood in the little chapel dedicated to
Saint Martin.

It was already sun-down when she reached
the church, and the evening service of the
Virgin had commenced. A cloud of incense
floated before the altar of the Madonna, and
the organ rolled its deep melody along the dim
arches of the church. Marguerite mingled
with the kneeling crowd, and repeated the
responses in Latin, with as much devotion, as
the most learned clerk of the convent. When

the service was over, she repaired to the chapel
of Saint Martin, and lighting her votive tapes
at the silver lamp, which burned before his
altar, knelt down in a retired part of the chapel,
and, with tears in her eyes, besought the
saint for aid and protection. Whilst she was
thus engaged, the church became gradually
deserted, till she was left, as she thought,
alone. But in this she was mistaken; for
when she arose to depart, the portly figure of
Friar Gui was standing close at her elbow!

“A fair, good evening to my lady Marguerite,”
said he significantly. “Saint Martin has
heard your prayer, and sent me to relieve your
poverty.”

“Then, by the Virgin!” replied she, “the
good saint is not very fastidious in the choice
of his messengers.”

“Nay, good wife;” answered the Friar,
not at all abashed by this ungracious reply;
“if the tidings are good, what matters it who
the messenger may be?—And how does
Martin Franc, these days?”

“He is well, Sir Gui;” replied Marguerite;
“and were he present, I doubt not

would thank you heartily for the interest you
still take in him and his poor wife.”

“He has done me wrong;” continued the
Friar, without seeming to notice the pointedness
of Marguerite's reply. “But it is our
duty to forgive our enemies; and so let the
past be forgotten. I know that he is in want.
Here, take this to him, and tell him I am still
his friend.”

So saying, he drew a small purse from the
sleeve of his habit, and proffered it to his companion.—I
know not whether it were a suggestion
of Saint Martin, but true it is, that the
fair lady of Martin Franc seemed to lend a
more willing ear to the earnest whispers of the
Friar. At length she said;

“Put up your purse; to-day I can neither
deliver your gift nor your message. Martin
Franc has gone from home.”

“Then keep it for yourself.”

“Nay, Sir Monk;” replied Marguerite,
casting down her eyes; “I can take no bribes
here in the church, and in the very chapel of
my husband's patron saint. You shall bring
it to me at my house, an' you will, Sir Gui.”

The Friar put up the purse, and the conversation,
which followed, was in a low and indistinct
undertone, audible only to the ears for
which it was intended. At length the interview
ceased; and,—O Woman! the last words that
the virtuous Marguerite uttered, as she glided
from the church, were;

“To-night;—when the Abbey clock strikes
twelve!—remember!”

It would be useless to relate how impatiently
the Friar counted the hours and the
quarters, as they chimed from the ancient
tower of the Abbey, whilst he paced to and
fro along the gloomy cloister. At length the
appointed hour approached; and just before
the convent bell sent forth its summons to call
the friars of Saint Anthony to their midnight
devotions, a figure, with a cowl, stole out of a
postern gate and passing silently along the
deserted streets, soon turned into the little
alley, which led to the dwelling of Martin
Franc. It was none other than Friar Gui.
He rapped softly at the tradesman's door;
and casting a look up and down the street, as if
to assure himself that his motions were unobserved,
slipped into the house.

“Has Martin Franc returned?” enquired
he in a whisper.

“No;” answered the sweet voice of his
wife; “he will not be back to night.”

“Then all good angels befriend us!” continued
the monk, endeavoring to take her hand.

“Not so, Sir Monk,” said she, disengaging
herself. You forget the conditions of our
meeting.”

The Friar paused a moment; and then
drawing a heavy leathern purse from his girdle,
he threw it upon the table. At the same moment
a footstep was heard behind him, and a
heavy blow from a club threw him prostrate
upon the floor. It came from the strong arm
of Martin Franc himself!

It is hardly necessary to say that his absence
was feigned. His wife had invented the
story to decoy the lecherous monk, and thereby
to keep her husband from beggary and to relieve
herself, once for all, from the importunities
of a false friend. At first Martin Franc
would not listen to the proposition; but at
length he yielded to the urgent entreaties of
his wife; and the plan finally agreed upon

was, that Friar Gui, after leaving his purse
behind him, should be sent back to the convent
with a severer discipline than his shoulders had
ever received from any penitence of his own.

The affair, however, took a more serious
turn than was intended; for when they tried to
raise the Friar from the ground,—he was dead.
The blow aimed at his shoulders fell upon his
shaven crown; and in the excitement of the
moment Martin Franc had dealt a heavier stroke
than he intended. Amid the grief and consternation,
which followed this discovery, the quick
imagination of his wife suggested an expedient
of safety. A bunch of keys at the Friar's
girdle caught her eye. Hastily unfastening
the ring, she gave the keys to her husband, exclaiming;

“For the holy Virgin's sake, be quick! One
of these keys unlocks the postern gate of the
convent garden. Carry the body thither, and
leave it among the trees!”

Martin Franc threw the dead body of the
monk across his shoulders, and with a heavy
heart took the way to the abbey. It was a
clear starry night; and though the moon had not

yet risen, her light was in the sky, and came
reflected down in a soft twilight upon earth.
Not a sound was heard through all the long
and solitary streets, save at intervals the distant
crowing of a cock, or the melancholy hoot of
an owl from the lofty tower of the abbey.
The silence weighed like an accusing spirit
upon the guilty conscience of Martin Franc.
He started at the sound of his own breathing,
as he panted under the heavy burden of the
monk's body; and if perchance a bat flitted
near him on drowsy wings, he paused, and his
heart beat audibly with terror: such cowards
does conscience make of even the most courageous.
At length he reached the garden wall
of the abbey,—opened the postern gate with
the key, and bearing the monk into the garden,
seated him upon a stone bench by the edge of
the fountain, with his head resting against a
column, upon which was sculptured an image
of the Madonna. He then replaced the bunch
of keys at the monk's girdle, and returned
home with hasty steps.

When the Prior of the convent, to whom
the repeated delinquencies of Friar Gui were

but too well known, observed that he was
again absent from his post at midnight prayers,
he waxed exceedingly angry; and no sooner
were the duties of the chapel finished, than he
sent a monk in pursuit of the truant sacristan,
summoning him to appear immediately at his
cell. By chance it happened, that the monk,
chosen for this duty, was a bitter enemy of
Friar Gui; and very shrewdly supposing that
the sacristan had stolen out of the garden gate
on some midnight adventure, he took that direction
in pursuit. The moon was just climbing
the convent wall, and threw its silvery light
through the trees of the garden, and on the
sparkling waters of the fountain, that fell with
a soft lulling sound into the deep basin below.
As the monk passed on his way, he stopped to
quench his thirst with a draught of the cool
water, and was turning to depart when his eye
caught the motionless form of the sacristan,
sitting erect in the shadow of the stone column.

“How is this, Friar Gui?” quoth the monk.
“Is this a place to be sleeping at midnight,
when the brotherhood are all in their dormitories?”

Friar Gui made no answer.

“Up, up!—thou eternal sleeper, and do penance
for thy negligence. The prior calls for
thee at his cell!” continued the monk, growing
angry, and shaking the sacristan by the shoulder.

But still no answer.

“Then by Saint Anthony I'll wake thee!
So, so! Sir Gui!”—

And saying this he dealt the sacristan a heavy
box on the ear. The body bent slowly forward
from its erect position, and giving a
headlong plunge, sank with a heavy splash
into the basin of the fountain. The monk
waited a few moments in expectation of seeing
Friar Gui rise dripping from his cold
bath, but he waited in vain;—for he lay
motionless at the bottom of the basin—his eyes
open, and his ghastly face distorted by the
ripples of the water. With a beating heart the
monk stooped down and grasping the skirt of
the sacristan's habit, at length succeeded in
drawing him from the water. All efforts,
however, to resuscitate him were unavailing.
The monk was filled with terror, not doubting

that the Friar had died untimely by his hand;
and as the animosity between them was no
secret in the convent, he feared that, when the
deed was known, he should be accused of wilful
murder. He therefore looked round for an
expedient to relieve himself of the dead body;
and the well-known character of the sacristan
soon suggested one. He determined to carry
the body to the house of the most noted beauty
of Rouen, and leave it on the door stop so
that all suspicion of the murder might fall
upon the shoulders of some jealous husband.
The beauty of Martin Franc's wife had penetrated
even the thick walls of the convent, and
there was not a friar in the whole Abbey of
Saint Anthony who had not done penance for
his truant imagination.—Accordingly the dead
body of Friar Gui was laid upon the monk's
brawny shoulders,—carried back to the house
of Martin Franc, and placed in an erect
position against the door. The monk knocked
loud and long; and then gliding through a bylane,
stole back to the convent.

A troubled conscience would not suffer
Martin Franc and his wife to close their eyes;

but they lay awake lamenting the doleful
events of the night. The knock at the door
sounded like a death-knell in their ears. It still
continued at intervals, rap—rap—rap!—with a
dull, low sound,—as if something heavy were
swinging against the pannel; for the wind had
risen during the night and every angry gust
that swept down the alley, swung the arms of
the lifeless sacristan against the door. At
length Martin Franc mustered courage enough
to dress himself and to go down, whilst his wife
followed him with a lamp in her hand; but no
sooner had he lifted the latch, than the ponderous
body of Friar Gui fell stark and heavy into
his arms.

“Jesu Maria!” exclaimed Marguerite,
crossing herself;—“here is the monk again!”

“Yes, and dripping wet, as if he had just
been dragged out of the river!”

“O we are betrayed—betrayed!” exclaimed
Marguerite in agony.

“Then the devil himself has betrayed us;”
replied Martin Franc, disengaging himself from
the embrace of the sacristan; “for I met not a
living being; the whole city was as silent as
the grave.”

“Holy Saint Martin defend us!” continued
his terrified wife. “Here, take this scapulary
to guard you from the evil one;—and
lose no time. You must throw the body into
the river; or we are lost! Holy Virgin!
How bright the moon shines!”

Saying this she threw round his neck a scapulary—with
the figure of a cross on one end
and an image of the Virgin on the other, and
Martin Franc again took the dead Friar upon
his shoulders and with fearful misgivings departed
on his dismal errand. He kept as
much as possible in the shadow of the houses,
and had nearly reached the quay, when suddenly,
he thought he heard footsteps behind
him.—He stopped to listen; it was no mistake—they
came along the pavement, tramp!
—tramp! and every step grew louder and
nearer. Martin Franc tried to quicken his
pace;—but in vain;—his knees smote together,
and he staggered against the wall. His hand
relaxed its grasp; and the monk slid from his
back, and stood ghastly and straight beside
him, supported by chance against the shoulder
of his bearer. At that moment, a man

came round the corner, tottering beneath
the weight of a huge sack. As his head
was bent downwards, he did not perceive
Martin Franc, till he was close upon him;
and when, on looking up, he saw two figures
standing motionless in the shadow of
the wall, he thought himself waylaid, and,
without waiting to be assaulted, dropped the
sack from his shoulders, and ran off at full
speed. The sack fell heavily on the pavement,
and directly at the feet of Martin Franc. In
the fall the string was broken; and out came
the bloody head—not of a dead monk, as it
first seemed to the excited imagination of
Martin Franc,—but of a dead hog!—When
the terror and surprise caused by this singular
event had a little subsided, an idea came into
the mind of Martin Franc, very similar to what
would have come into the mind of almost any
person in similar circumstances. He took the
hog out of the sack and putting the body of the
monk into its place, secured it well with the
remnants of the broken string; and then hurried
homeward with the hog upon his shoulders.

He was hardly out of sight, when the man
of the sack returned, accompanied by two
others. They were surprised to find the sack
still lying on the ground, with no one near it,
and began to jeer the former bearer, telling
him he had been frightened at his own shadow
on the wall. Then one of them took the sack
upon his shoulders, without the least suspicion
of the change that had been made in its contents,
and all three disappeared.

Now it happened that the city of Rouen
was at that time infested by three street robbers,
who walked in darkness like the pestilence, and
always carried the plunder of their midnight marauding
to the Tête-de-Bœuf, a little tavern in
one of the darkest and narrowest lanes of the city.
The host of the Tête-de-Bœuf was privy to all
their schemes, and had an equal share in the
profits of their nightly excursions. He gave a
helping hand, too, by the length of his bills,
and by plundering the pockets of any chance
traveller, that was luckless enough to sleep under
his roof.

On the night of the disastrous adventure of
Friar Gui, this little marauding party had been

prowling about the city until a late hour,
without finding any thing to reward their labors.
At length, however, they chanced to
spy a hog, hanging under a shed in a butcher's
yard in readiness for the next day's market;
and as they were not very fastidious in
selecting their plunder, but on the contrary
rather addicted to taking whatever they could
lay their hands on, the hog was straightway
purloined, thrust into a large sack, and sent to
the Tête-de-Bœuf on the shoulders of one of the
party, whilst the other two continued their nocturnal
excursion. It was this person, who had
been so terrified at the appearance of Martin
Franc and the dead monk; and as this encounter
had interrupted any further operations of
the party—the dawn of day being now near
at hand,—they all repaired to their gloomy
den in the Tête-de-Bœuf. The host was impatiently
waiting their return; and, asking
what plunder they had brought with them, proceeded
without delay to remove it from the
sack. The first thing that presented itself, on
untying the string, was the monk's hood.

“The devil take the devil!” cried the host,

as he opened the neck of the sack, “What's
this?—Your hog has got a cowl!”

“The poor devil has become disgusted
with the world, and turned monk!” said he,
who held the light, a little surprised at seeing
the head covered with a coarse gray cloth.

“Sure enough he has,” exclaimed another,
starting back in dismay, as the shaven crown
and ghastly face of the Friar appeared. “Holy
Saint Benedict be with us!—It is a monk,
stark dead!”

“A dead monk, indeed!” said a third,
with an incredulous shake of the head, “How
could a dead monk get into this sack?”—No,
no: there is some diablerie in this. I have
heard it said, that Satan can take any shape
he pleases; and you may rely upon it, this is
Satan himself, who has taken the shape of
a monk to get us all hanged.”

“Then we had better kill the devil than
have the devil kill us!”—replied the host,
crossing himself. “And the sooner we do it,
the better; for it is now near day-light, and
people will soon be passing in the street.”

“So say I;” rejoined the man of magic;

“and my advice is to take him to the butcher's
yard, and hang him up in the place where we
found the hog.”

This proposition so pleased the others, that
it was executed without delay. They carried
the Friar to the butcher's house, and passing a
strong cord round his neck, suspended him to
a beam in the shed, and there left him.

When the night was at length passed, and
daylight began to peep into the eastern windows
of the city, the butcher arose, and prepared
himself for market. He was casting up
in his mind, what the hog would bring at his
stall, when looking upward—lo! in its place
he recognized the dead body of Friar Gui.

“By Saint Dennis!” quoth the butcher,
“I always feared that this Friar would not die
quietly in his cell; but I never thought I
should find him hanging under my own roof.—
This must not be; it will be said, that I murdered
him, and I shall pay for it with my life.
I must contrive some way to get rid of him.”

So saying he called his man, and showing
him what had been done, asked him how he
should dispose of the body, so that he might

not be accused of murder. The man, who was
of a ready wit, reflected a moment, and then
answered;

“This is indeed a difficult matter; but
there is no evil without its remedy.—We will
place the friar on horseback—”

“What!—a dead man on horseback?—
impossible!” interrupted the butcher. “Who
ever heard of a dead man on horseback!”

“Hear me out, and then judge. We must
place the body on horseback, as well as we
may, and bind it fast with cords, and then set
the horse loose in the street, and pursue after
him crying out, that the monk has stolen the
horse. Thus all who meet him will strike him
with their staves, as he passes, and it will be
thought that he came to his death in that way.”

Though this seemed to the butcher rather
a mad project, yet, as no better one offered
itself, at the moment, and there was no time
for reflection, mad as the project was, they
determined to put it into execution. Accordingly
the butcher's horse was brought out, and
the Friar was bound upon his back, and with
much difficulty fixed in an upright position.

The butcher then gave the horse a blow upon
the crupper with his staff, which set him into a
smart gallop down the street, and he and his
man joined in pursuit crying;

“Stop thief!—Stop thief!—The friar has
stolen my horse!”

As it was now sunrise the streets were full
of people, peasants driving their goods to market,
and citizens going to their daily avocations.
When they saw the Friar dashing at full speed
down the street, they joined in the cry of “Stop
thief!—Stop that horse!” and many, who endeavored
to seize the bridle as the Friar passed
them at full speed, were thrown upon the pavement,
and trampled under foot. Others joined
in the halloo! and the pursuit; but this only
served to quicken the gallop of the frightened
steed, who dashed down one street and up
another like the wind, with two or three
mounted citizens clattering in full cry at his
heels. At length they reached the market
place.—The people scattered right and
left in dismay—and the steed and rider
dashed onward, overthrowing in their course
men and women, and stalls, and piles of

merchandise, and sweeping away like a
whirlwind. Tramp—tramp—tramp! they clattered
on; they had distanced all pursuit. They
reached the quay; the wide pavement was
cleared at a bound—one more wild leap—and
splash!—both horse and rider sank into the
rapid current of the river—swept down the
stream—and were seen no more!