Satan wished to break the contract, calling Saint Michael a swindler.

But the saint, who had developed quite a taste for agriculture, went back to see the devil and said: 

“Really, I hadn’t thought of that at all; it was just an accident, no fault of mine.  And to make things fair with you, this year I’ll let you take everything that is under the ground.”

“Very well,” answered Satan.

The following spring all the evil spirit’s lands were covered with golden wheat, oats as big as beans, flax, magnificent colza, red clover, peas, cabbage, artichokes, everything that develops into grains or fruit in the sunlight.

Once more Satan received nothing, and this time he completely lost his temper.  He took back his fields and remained deaf to all the fresh propositions of his neighbor.

A whole year rolled by.  From the top of his lonely manor Saint Michael looked at the distant and fertile lands and watched the devil direct the work, take in his crops and thresh the wheat.  And he grew angry, exasperated at his powerlessness.

As he was no longer able to deceive Satan, he decided to wreak vengeance on him, and he went out to invite him to dinner for the following Monday.

“You have been very unfortunate in your dealings with me,” he said; “I know it, but I don’t want any ill feeling between us, and I expect you to dine with me.  I’ll give you some good things to eat.”

Satan, who was as greedy as he was lazy, accepted eagerly.  On the day appointed he donned his finest clothes and set out for the castle.

Saint Michael sat him down to a magnificent meal.  First there was a ‘vol-au-vent’, full of cocks’ crests and kidneys, with meat-balls, then two big gray mullet with cream sauce, a turkey stuffed with chestnuts soaked in wine, some salt-marsh lamb as tender as cake, vegetables which melted in the mouth and nice hot pancake which was brought on smoking and spreading a delicious odor of butter.

They drank new, sweet, sparkling cider and heady red wine, and after each course they whetted their appetites with some old apple brandy.

The devil drank and ate to his heart’s content; in fact he took so much that he was very uncomfortable, and began to retch.

Then Saint Michael arose in anger and cried in a voice like thunder:  “What! before me, rascal!  You dare—­before me—­”

Satan, terrified, ran away, and the saint, seizing a stick, pursued him.  They ran through the halls, turning round the pillars, running up the staircases, galloping along the cornices, jumping from gargoyle to gargoyle.  The poor devil, who was woefully ill, was running about madly and trying hard to escape.  At last he found himself at the top of the last terrace, right at the top, from which could be seen the immense bay, with its distant towns, sands and pastures.  He could no longer escape, and the saint came up behind him and gave him a furious kick, which shot him through space like a cannonball.