A Minor Brother
Second sons of Walloon country squires in the Year of Our Lord 1717 had the choice of an army or an abbey. Heading off the military option, at age fifteen Jacques begged Squire Luiaard to send him into holy orders. And not your common or garden Benedictines who proliferated like hops in the region: he would be a begging Franciscan, the least demanding métier he could imagine. The father shook his head and chuckled indulgently. He rode to Brussels and made inquiries. The breed was rare; they produced no beer. There were precisely two Franciscan houses in the country, the Antwerp Minderbroederskerk being the more prosperous. On his return two weeks later the squire said, “Alors fiston, we go?”
On a fine June morning they struck the Flanders Road, Squire Luiaard booted, armed and drunk astride his magnificent 18-hand destrier with Jacques jellylike behind on a placid draft. Forty leagues later they were received into the Great Chamber of the Reverend Abbot de Nards. Bows all around as the abbot mentally priced the travelers’ clothes.
“Monsieur the Abbot.”
“Monsieur the Chevalier. Young Master. Please seat-yourselves! Some refreshment, n’est-ce pas, after the fatigues of the road?”
He called for a bottle of Benedictine and a plate of biscuits. They dipped, sipped. The abbot steepled his fingers and purred, “And to what do we owe the great honor of your lordship’s visit?”
“A little request, padre,” the squire dipped and chewed, pulled out a plump leather pouch of what sounded to the practiced ear like double Louis of gold, and chinked it between his gouty paws.
“Your servant by the grace of God, monsieur,” said the transfixed holy man.
“My little boy here,” nodding benignly at the egg-white lump of lard.
“A most promising young lord.”
“He’s a good boy.”
“That can be seen, milord,” looking at the pouch.
“He wants to join your order. Not a lay brother. Monk, priest, pope, the whole thing.”
“He has the grace, monsieur, the carriage, the humility of the true man of the cloth. He would be most welcome as a novice working in our humble abbey toward his stellar episcopal career.”
“Well, see, that’s the thing. Little Jacques here isn’t your best worker.”
“We are also a contemplative order, my lord.”
“Well, he’s not much of a contemplator either. He’s more what you call…an observer I would say.”
The treasure hung suspended.
“Monsieur, God’s love is infinite and the Franciscan province wide. Like the bees in the hive and the ants in the nest, we all have our little part to play in the life of the convent.”
Squire Luiaard appraised the curtains, the Bruges tapestries, the oak furniture, the Flemish masters on the Chamber wall. “Let’s put it this way, padre. For an order devoted to poverty you don’t seem to be doing too badly here.”
“Oh, monsieur,” a deprecating brush.
“And unless I am much mistaken this bag of yellowboys is not unwelcome to your abbot, I mean abbey.”
“Oh monsieur, such an amount would add a new wing to our old warming-house!”
“Or maybe a new warm cashmere to the wings of your old poule de luxe, hein?”
“Oh, monsieur the squire, there, really.”
The two men of the world spewed hard-contained laughter as one. Ah hahahaaa, hohohoooo hein? Hihihihiiii, ho là là she is good that one, wings of the poule ah hahaaa…
When the gasps died down, “Finally.”
“Finally, padre. This useless eater of dinners, this parasite, I am the first to say it, I have a soft spot for him.”
“Monsieur is a loving father.”
“His brother inherits all, but I want little Jacques to have the comfortable life. That’s where the goldenboys come in. IF…”
De Nards’ ears stood to attention. “If. Of course, milord.”
“I hand this bag of you-know-whats. To you.”
“To me monsieur,” écus écus.
“You, in turn…”
“Ah yes, my lord. Prayers for your soul eternally, that I can…”
“Merde alors. Quit interrupting me. I’m talking about Jacky boy here. He stays at Minderbroederskerk, hell of a name you got there. Find him something to do, train him. I don’t know, he likes feeding the birds. Think big. Make him a bishop. And IF…,” raising the leathern pouch.
“Of course, IF monsieur…”
“If he’s happy here you’ll get one of these,” jingling the sac, “Every year. I’ll be back one year from today.”
“June 16 Year of Our Lord 1718.”
“To settle accounts with you. BUT…”
“Ah monsieur, naturally BUT…”
“Unmolested, my little monklet. You know those Inquisition chambers down in your dungeon where you discipline violations?”
Little Jacques stopped blowing spit-bubbles.
“Oh, monsieur, really, rusty from neglect haha I assure you. They doors they do not open these days. We are so far from the cruel…”
“Merde! One more interruption and Jacky and Louie XIII go the Benedictines to make this piss we’re drinking.”
“…”
“Good. Now sing along with me,” swinging the bag to an improvised sort of drinking-song:
From today I am in your pay (bis)
I will do as you say (bis)
Jacky is my protégé (bis)
“So speak Abbot, yay or nay?”
Irrefutable logic. Abbot de Nards bowed courtly from the waist, “But yay monsieur.”
What the squire insolently dropped the Abbot deftly caught.
Spurs clicking, musketeer-boots creaking, the squire rose to leave. “Oh, one more thing padre.”
The Abbot was Serenity Recovered. “One more thing, monsieur?” he glossed.
“I do not ask for the receipt, n’est-ce pas? A gesture of trust, yes?
“Monsieur is a great lord.”
“Thus, you may use this little gift for any religious purpose. Including your own. No one will ever know except God.”
An observer of Abbot’s expression would have thought the human face sure has a lot of muscles.
“Let us understand each other, padre. I have some friends,” negligent wave, “Who have some friends. We all have some friends. You have some friends, is it not.”
“?”
“And since God may not always be watching, I will do that for Him. I have made inquiries among my friends. Let us see, ah, Micheline Michon, Manon Saute-au-Zob, Eulalie le Lilas, Fernande la Bande? These are just the Bruxelloises. I may be overlooking some of your minor mistresses. The names are in my strongbox.”
Muscular defeat. “Ah. Monsieur.”
Squire Luiaard opened the door. “Be good fiston, you hear? Mind the Abbot.” Jacques lifted a phlegmatic hand and said good bye father.
