CHAPTER II.
When Frantz Mathéus had formed the generous resolve of illuminating the world with his own light, a strange and undefinable calm entered into the depths of his soul. It was the eve of St. Boniface, towards six o’clock in the evening; a splendid sun lit the valley of Graufthal, and relieved the motionless branches of the tall firs against the clear sky.
The good man was seated in the old arm-chair of his forefathers, near the small casement, his eyes wandering over the silent little town stretched at the foot of the misty mountains.
Peasants were mowing grass on the skirt of the forest; women, old Martha herself amongst them, armed with rakes, were turning the hay and singing old country airs.
The Zinsel murmured softly in its pebbly bed; a low hum filled the air; long files of ducks were taking their way up the stream, and every now and then raised their nasal cry; fowls were sleeping under the shadow of walls, on the shafts of carts and implements of labour; chubby children were romping and amusing themselves on the thresholds of cottages; and watchdogs, their muzzles between their paws, gave themselves up to the overpowering heat of the day.
This calm scene insensibly touched the heart of Mathéus; silent tears stole down his venerable cheeks; he took his already grey head between his hands, and, with his elbows on the window-ledge, wept like a child.
A crowd of tender recollections rose to his mind. That rustic dwelling, the abode of his father—this little garden, the trees of which he had cultivated, every plant in which he had sown—this old oak furniture, embrowned by time—all reminded him of his peaceful happiness, his habits, his friends, his infancy; and it almost seemed as if each of those inanimate objects appealed to him in touching accents not to desert them—reproached him for his ingratitude, and commiserated him beforehand on his loneliness in the world. And the heart of Frantz Mathéus echoed all these voices, and at every recollection fresh tears streamed more abundantly from his eyes.
Then, when he thought of the poor little town of which he was in some sort the only providence; when, through his tears, he looked at each of the little doors at which he had so often stopped to speak words of consolation, to distribute help, and to give ease to human sufferings; when he remembered all the hands that had pressed his, all the looks of affection and love that had blessed him—then he felt the weight of his resolution almost more than he could bear, and dared not think of the moment of his departure.
“What will Christian Schmidt say,” he thought, “whose wife I cured of a cruel malady, and who does not know how sufficiently to show his gratitude to me? What will Jacob Zimmer say, whom I saved from ruin, when he had not a farthing left to rebuild his barn? What will old Martha say, who has taken care of me with a mother’s tenderness, who brought me my coffee and cream every morning, who mended my breeches and stockings, and who would never go to bed till she had covered me up and pulled my cotton nightcap down to my ears? Poor Martha!—poor, poor, good old Martha! Only yesterday she was knitting me warm under-stockings, and putting away the dozen new shirts she had spun for me with her own hands! And what will Georges Brenner say, on hearing that his wood will be burnt by somebody else? He’ll be very angry; he’s a man of the canine race, who will not listen to reason, and will not let me go.”
Such were the reflections of Frantz Mathéus; and if his resolution had not been firm, indestructible, so many obstacles would have overthrown his courage.
But as the sun went down towards the Falberg, and the coolness of night spread itself over the bottom of the valley, he felt calmness and serenity revive within his soul; his eyes rose lovingly towards heaven, the last rays of twilight illuminating his inspired brow; he might have been thought to be praying silently. Frantz Mathéus was thinking of the incalculable consequences of his system for the happiness of future men, and nothing but Martha’s arrival could interrupt the flow of his sublime meditations.
He heard his old servant go into the kitchen, put away her rake behind the door, and begin to take down plates and dishes preparatory to supper.
These sounds, familiar to his ear; Martha’s tread, which he would have recognised among a thousand; the hum of the little town, the song of the men and women haymakers returning merrily home, the small windows in which lights were appearing one by one—all this once more affected the good man; he dared not stir from his seat; with joined hands and head bent down, he listened to these intermingled sounds. “Listen to these beloved sounds,” he said to himself, “for perhaps you may never hear them again!—never!”
Suddenly Martha opened the room-door. She could not see her master, and called out—
“Are you there, Doctor?”
“Yes, Martha, I am here,” answered Mathéus, in a trembling voice.
“Bless us! why do you sit in the dark like that? I’ll run and get a light.”
“There is no need. I would rather speak to you so. I would rather tell you—— Come—come here and listen to me.”
Mathéus could not articulate another word; his heart beat violently, and he thought: “If I were to see her face when I tell her what I must tell her—it would be more than I could bear.”
Martha felt by the Doctor’s tone of voice that she was going to hear distressing news, and her knees bent under her.
“What is the matter with you, Doctor?” she said; “your voice trembles!”
“It is nothing—it is nothing, my good, my dear Martha!—it is nothing. Sit down—here, near me; I have something to tell you——”
But again the words died upon his lips.
After a few moments’ silence, he went on—
“It will distress you, but it must be done.”
The old servant in great anxiety hurried away to fetch the lamp; when she returned she saw Mathéus looking as pale as death.
“You are ill, Doctor,” she cried; “you are in pain, I am sure!”
But the illustrious Doctor had had time to collect his thoughts. A luminous idea flashed upon his mind—
“If I can succeed in convincing Martha, all will go well, and it will clearly prove besides that entire humanity will be unable to resist the eloquence of Frantz Mathéus.” Full of this conviction, he rose.
“Martha,” he said, “look me full in the face.”
“I’m looking at you, Doctor,” replied the bewildered old servant.
“Well, you see before you Frantz Mathéus, Doctor of Medicine of the Faculty of Strasbourg, Corresponding Member of the Surgical Institute of Prague and of the Royal Society of Sciences of Gœttingen, Veterinary Councillor of the Stud of Wurtzbourg, and formerly, by a truly frightful concourse of circumstances, Surgeon-Major to the band of Schinderhannes.”
Here the Doctor paused, to allow Martha time to appreciate the full magnificence of these titles. He then went on—
“Frantz Mathéus, sole inventor of the famous psychologico-anthropo-zoological doctrine, which has shaken the world, astounded ignorance, exasperated envy, and struck the universe with admiration! Frantz Mathéus, to whom have been entrusted the destinies of humanity and of cosmological philosophy, founded on the three kingdoms of nature—vegetable, animal, and human! Frantz Mathéus, who for fifteen years has languished in shameful ease, and whose indignant conscience every day reproaches him with having abandoned to the hazard of systems, to the sophisms of schools, and to the disastrous influence of prejudice, the future of humankind!”
Martha trembled in every limb; never had she seen her master in such a state of enthusiasm.
The illustrious philosopher, on his side, marked with satisfaction his servant’s bewilderment. He went on with redoubled eloquence—
“How long, Mathéus, will you take upon yourself this frightful responsibility? How long will you forget the sublime mission imposed on you by genius? Do you not hear the voices calling you? Do you not know that, to mount the ladder of being, one must suffer, and that to suffer is to merit? Ignorance and sophistry raise themselves in vain against you? March—march! Frantz Mathéus! Sow on your way the beneficent germs of anthropo-zoology, and your glory, immortal as truth, shall grow from age to age, sheltering beneath its evergreen foliage the future generations! It is for this purpose, Martha, that you must pack up my valise this evening; tell Nickel, the cobbler, to mend Bruno’s saddle; give a double feed of oats to the poor beast; and I shall set off to-morrow before daybreak, to preach my doctrine to the universe.”
At this conclusion Martha was very nearly tumbling backwards; she thought her master had gone out of his senses.
“What, Doctor!” she stammered; “you want to leave us—to abandon us? Oh, no! it’s impossible! You—so good—who have none but friends in the place! You can’t think of such a thing!”
“It must be so,” replied Mathéus stoically—“it must be so; it is my duty.”
Martha said no more, and appeared to resign herself. As usual, she laid the cloth and served up the Doctor’s supper. That day it was a fowl with rice, and filberts for dessert; Mathéus—of the family of the nibblers—was very fond of nuts. His servant redoubled her usual attentions; she herself carved the fowl, and assisted him to the most delicate morsels; she refilled his glass to the brim, and looked at him with a melancholy eye, as if in pity.
When the meal was finished, she conducted Mathéus into his little bedroom, turned the bedclothes down herself, and satisfied herself that his cotton nightcap was under the pillow.
All was white, clean, neatly arranged; the china washhand-basin on the stand, the ewer of fresh water in the basin, the little glass shining between the two windows; the bookcase, containing the Anthropo-Zoology, in sixteen volumes, some Latin authors, and books of medicine carefully dated; everywhere might be recognised the attentive care of the vigilant housewife.
After having convinced herself that everything was in its place, Martha opened the door and wished her master “good night” in a voice so touching that the illustrious philosopher felt heartrent. He would have liked to have thrown himself upon the excellent woman’s neck, and said to her, “Martha—my good Martha—you cannot imagine how much Frantz Mathéus admires your courage and resignation. He predicts for you the highest future destiny!” That is what he would have liked to have said; but fear of a too pathetic scene calmed his deep emotion, and he contented himself by again gently enjoining her to give a double feed of oats to Bruno, and to wake him at daybreak.
The good woman went slowly away, and the illustrious Doctor Mathéus, happy in this first triumph, lay down in his feather-bed.
For a long time he could not close an eye; he recapitulated all the events of this memorable day, and the sublime consequences of the anthropo-zoological system; images, invocations, prosopopœia, linked themselves one with another in his luminous mind, until at last his eyelids drooped, and he sank into a profound sleep.