Back at the spa, it occurred to me that Herzbruder, far from getting better, was going downhill. This was despite the fact that the doctors and apothecaries were plucking him more assiduously than a plump goose. Moreover, he seemed increasingly childlike in his behaviour as well as being barely able to walk properly. I cheered him up as much as I could, but it was hard going. I imagined that, from the way his strength was draining away, he was aware himself that he hadn’t long to live. His greatest concern was that I’d be with him when he eventually fell off the perch.
I myself had a right old time, taking my pleasure wherever I could while of course seeing to it that my friend had all he needed care-wise. And in combination with the knowledge that I was now a widower, the warm spring weather and my relative youth very much perked me up in the love department. In this my appetite was enormous (the terrible fright I’d received back in Einsiedeln church being quite forgotten by now). Among the spa visitors was a very lovely lady whose figure, for all that its owner played the aristocrat, was more suggestive of nubility than nobility. I pretty much danced attendance on this mantrap, and speedily gained full access; I had only to ask, and my every wish was granted. However, such ready compliance soon became a bore, and I began to look around for a decent way to dump her. Anyway, I have an idea she was more after my money than me as a marriage partner. Plus every time we met she threw exaggeratedly hot loving glances in my direction and gave me other tokens of her burning affection, which made me feel embarrassed for us both.
Also visiting the spa at that time was a wealthy Swiss gent. He had not only his money but also his wife’s jewellery (gold, silver, pearls, precious stones – the lot) nicked off him. Such stuff being as irritating to lose as it’s difficult to obtain, said Swiss tried everything he could think of to get it back. He even had the notorious exorcist of nearby Geisshaut cast such spells on the pickpocket that he returned all the goods he’d stolen to their rightful owners, with the sorcerer receiving a fat tip each time.
I was keen to meet this master of the black arts and have a chat with him. However, I was afraid folk might think less of me as a result (I thought quite highly of myself at the time, you see). So, having heard that he was fond of his tipple, I asked my servant to have a drink with him one evening. I wanted to see if I could become acquainted with him that way. The fact was, I’d heard many strange tales about him – things I refused to believe unless I heard them from his own lips. Disguising myself as a door-to-door snake-oil salesman, I went along too and sat down at table with them both. Would he guess who I was, I wondered, or would the devil perhaps whisper in his ear? I couldn’t tell one way or the other from his manner. He simply went on drinking, taking me for the person my clothes suggested. He clinked glasses with me a couple of times but otherwise talked more to my servant than to me, confiding in him that if he himself had nicked that stuff off the Swiss gent he’d have needed only to toss a fraction of it into some running water (i.e. give the devil a portion) for the thief to be rendered unidentifiable and the goods placed beyond recovery.
Overhearing talk of this asinine ruse, I was amazed that Old Nick, the arch-deceiver, should get his claws into wretched humanity by such trivial means. Obviously this trifling piece of by-play was part of the pact the exorcist had sealed with the devil, and I could well imagine that knowing the ruse would be of little use to the thief if a different sorcerer (one whose pact didn’t include this clause) was called in to uncover the crime. Accordingly, I told my servant (a niftier fingersmith than any in Bohemia) to drink the fellow under the table and pinch the cash he’d received, not forgetting to toss some of the small change into the River Rench afterwards. This my servant did to the letter. When early next morning the sorcerer found that his money had gone, he went out to the ‘Wild Rench’ (as it’s called) and a little way upriver to a thicket, most probably to discuss the matter with his familiar spirit. However, he was so viciously set upon that he came back with a black eye and a badly scratched face. The poor scoundrel kicked up such a fuss that I gave him back his money again and told him: now that he saw what a wicked, deceitful piece of work the devil was, perhaps he’d quit working for him and turn back to God. Not that tipping the fellow the wink did any good at all. From that day on my luck deserted me. My fine horses, falling ill immediately, snuffed it in short order. They’d been bewitched, of course. But what did I expect? My life was wholly godless; I lived for myself alone, totally failing to commend my loved ones to God’s protection; so why should that wizard not have taken it out on me?