“Ah, my pretty one,” said he, “you are not overburdened with the goods of this world that you thus work with your hands upon the Lord’s Day.  Are you not afraid of being cast into prison?”

“Monseigneur,” replied the maid, casting down her eyes, “I have nothing to fear, because I belong to the abbey.  The Lord Abbot has given me leave to exercise the cow after vespers.”

“You love your cow, then, more than the salvation of your soul?”

“Ah, monseigneur, our beast is almost the half of our poor lives.”

“I am astonished, my girl, to see you poor and in rags, clothed like a fagot, running barefoot about the fields on the Sabbath, when you carry about you more treasures than you could dig up in the grounds of the abbey.  Do not the townspeople pursue, and torment you with love?”

“Oh, never monseigneur.  I belong to the abbey”, replied she, showing the jeweller a collar on her left arm like those that the beasts of the field have, but without the little bell, and at the same time casting such a deplorable glance at our townsman that he was stricken quite sad, for by the eyes are communicated contagions of the heart when they are strong.

“And what does this mean?” he said, wishing to hear all about it.

And he touched the collar, upon which was engraved the arms of the abbey very distinctly, but which he did not wish to see.

“Monseigneur, I am the daughter of an homme de corps; thus whoever unites himself to me by marriage, will become a bondsman, even if he were a citizen of Paris, and would belong body and goods to the abbey.  If he loved me otherwise, his children would still belong to the domain.  For this reason I am neglected by everyone, abandoned like a poor beast of the field.  But what makes me most unhappy is, that according to the pleasure of monseigneur the abbot, I shall be coupled at some time with a bondsman.  And if I were less ugly than I am, at the sight of my collar the most amorous would flee from me as from the black plague.”

So saying, she pulled her cow by the cord to make it follow her.

“And how old are you?” asked the silversmith.

“I do not know, monseigneur; but our master, the abbot, has kept account.”

This great misery touched the heart of the good man, who had in his day eaten the bread of sorrow.  He regulated his pace to the girl’s, and they went together towards the water in painful silence.  The good man gazed at the fine forehead, the round red arms, the queen’s waist, the feet dusty, but made like those of a Virgin Mary; and the sweet physiognomy of this girl, who was the living image of St. Genevieve, the patroness of Paris, and the maidens who live in the fields.  And make sure that this Joseph suspected the pretty white of this sweet girl’s breasts, which were by a modest grace carefully covered with an old rag, and looked at them as a schoolboy looks at a rosy apple on a hot day.  Also, may you depend upon it that these little hillocks of nature denoted a wench fashioned with delicious perfection, like everything that the monks possess.  Now, the more it was forbidden our silversmith to touch them, the more his mouth watered for these fruits of love.  And his heart leaped almost into his mouth.