Devil Stories Part 20

V

Next morning the Condeens scattered in crowds over the country, to play golf, eat red herrings, and drink beer, so as to scatter the fumes of wine from their heads and to revive after the fatigues of the Carnival. The wheelwright of Coq came too, with his miserable club, and made such fine strokes that all the players left their games to see him play. The following Sunday he proved still more expert; little by little his fame spread through the land. From ten leagues round the most skilful players hastened to come and be beaten, and it was then that he was named the Great Golfer.

He pa.s.sed the whole Sunday in golfing, and in the evening he rested himself by playing a game of matrimony at the "Fighting c.o.c.k." He spread his ap.r.o.n under the feet of the players, and the devil himself could not have put them out of the tavern, much less the rural policeman. On Monday morning he stopped the pilgrims who were going to worship at Notre Dame de Bon Secours; he induced them to rest themselves upon his _causeuse_, and did not let them go before he had confessed them well.

In short, he led the most agreeable life that a good Fleming can imagine, and only regretted one thing--namely, that he had not wished it might last for ever.

VI

Well, it happened one day that the strongest player of Mons, who was called Paternostre, was found dead on the edge of a bunker. His head was broken, and near him was his niblick, red with blood.

They could not tell who had done this business, and as Paternostre often said that at golf he feared neither man nor devil, it occurred to them that he had challenged Mynheer van Belzebuth, and that as a punishment for this he had knocked him on the head. Mynheer van Belzebuth is, as every one knows, the greatest gamester that there is upon or under the earth, but the game he particularly affects is golf.

When he goes his round in Flanders one always meets him, club in hand, like a true Fleming.

The wheelwright of Coq was very fond of Paternostre, who, next to himself, was the best golfer in the country. He went to his funeral with some golfers from the hamlets of Coq, La Cigogne, and La Queue de l'Ayache.

On returning from the cemetery they went to the tavern to drink, as they say, to the memory of the dead,[21] and there they lost themselves in talk about the n.o.ble game of golf. When they separated, in the dusk of evening:

[21] _Boire la cervelle du mort._

"A good journey to you," said the Belgian players, "and may St.

Antony, the patron of golfers, preserve you from meeting the devil on the way!"

"What do I care for the devil?" replied Roger. "If he challenged me I should soon beat him!"

The companions trotted from tavern to tavern without misadventure; but the wolf-bell had long tolled for retiring in the belfry of Conde when they returned each one to his own den.

VII

As he was putting the key into the lock the wheelwright thought he heard a shout of mocking laughter. He turned, and saw in the darkness a man six feet high, who again burst out laughing.

"What are you laughing at?" said he, crossly.

"At what? Why, at the _aplomb_ with which you boasted a little while ago that you would dare measure yourself against the devil."

"Why not, if he challenged me?"

"Very well, my master, bring your clubs. I challenge you!" said Mynheer van Belzebuth, for it was himself. Roger recognized him by a certain odour of sulphur that always hangs about his majesty.

"What shall the stake be?" he asked resolutely.

"Your soul?"

"Against what?"

"Whatever you please."

The wheelwright reflected.

"What have you there in your sack?"

"My spoils of the week."

"Is the soul of Paternostre among them?"

"To be sure! and those of five other golfers; dead, like him, without confession."

"I play you my soul against that of Paternostre."

"Done!"

VIII

The two adversaries repaired to the adjoining field and chose for their goal the door of the cemetery of Conde.[22] Belzebuth teed a ball on a frozen heap, after which he said, according to custom:

[22] They play to points, not holes.

"From here, as you lie, in how many turns of three strokes will you run in?"

"In two," replied the great golfer.

And his adversary was not a little surprised, for from there to the cemetery was nearly a quarter of a league.

"But how shall we see the ball?" continued the wheelwright.

"True!" said Belzebuth.

He touched the ball with his club, and it shone suddenly in the dark like an immense glowworm.

"Fore!" cried Roger.

He hit the ball with the head of his club, and it rose to the sky like a star going to rejoin its sisters. In three strokes it crossed three-quarters of the distance.

"That is good!" said Belzebuth, whose astonishment redoubled. "My turn to play now!"[23]

[23] After each three strokes the opponent has one hit back, or into a hazard.

With one stroke of the club he drove the ball over the roofs of Coq nearly to Maison Blanche, half a league away. The blow was so violent that the iron struck fire against a pebble.

"Good St. Antony! I am lost, unless you come to my aid," murmured the wheelwright of Coq.

He struck tremblingly; but, though his arm was uncertain, the club seemed to have acquired a new vigour. At the second stroke the ball went as if of itself and hit the door of the cemetery.

"By the horns of my grandfather!" cried Belzebuth, "it shall not be said that I have been beaten by a son of that fool Adam. Give me my revenge."

"What shall we play for?"