CHAPTER IX.
Now the illustrious philosopher had slept for three hours when Coucou Peter cried—“Maître Frantz, wake up!—Here are the pilgrims of Haslach coming down the mountain; they outnumber the grains of sand on the seashore; get up, master, and see them!”
Having raised himself, Mathéus perceived, first his disciple perched in a wild cherry-tree, gathering the fruit in the manner of the thrushes, and giving himself up heartily to the pleasure; the eyes of the good man were next directed to the neighbouring mountain.
Through the tall firs, farther than the sight could reach, came an immense train of barefooted pilgrims, their shoes carried at the end of their walking-sticks, some carrying provisions, packages, flasks, and all sorts of things necessary to life.
An old woman advanced alone at their head, reciting a prayer in the midst of universal silence, the others responding—
“Pray for us! pray for us!”
And this cry, repeated from mouth to mouth, to the tops of the rocks, on the verge of the ravines, in the hollows of the valleys, resembled the melancholy chant of flights of cranes traversing the clouds.
The illustrious Doctor was so touched with the sight as to be unable to utter a word, but Coucou Peter, from the height of the tree, pointed out with his hand each village as it reached the summit of the Nideck—
“Here come the Walsch folks!” he cried. “I recognise them by their straw hats, their short waistcoats, and their big breeches, that reach up to their armpits; they are jolly fellows, making a pilgrimage to drink Alsace wine. Those that are now coming after them in short breeches and large coats with big buttons shining in the sun, are from Dagsberg, the most sanctified and poorest country in the mountains; they are coming to the fair to kiss the bones of St. Florent. Here come the St. Quirin people, in short blouses, and caps cocked on their ears; look out for fisticuffs in the procession! All these fellows from the glass houses and factories love to get drunk and fight against the Germans; it isn’t with them, Maître Frantz, that it will do to discuss the peregrination of souls. Look at those now coming down the branch road of Roche Plate; they are called the Big Jims of the mountain; they’ve joined the pilgrimage to show their fine clothes. See how they’ve covered their hats with their handkerchiefs, and tucked their trousers into the tops of their boots; they are the swells of Aberschwiller, and walk gravely with their noses in the air! But who the deuce can those be, coming staggering after them? Ah! I recognise ’em—they are the people of the plain, the Lorrainers, with their little bags filled with walnuts and bacon. Lord, how tired they look! Poor little women, I pity them with all my heart. All these little women of the plain are as fresh as roses, while those of the highlands, of La Houpe for example, are as brown as berries.”
The good apostle found something to say about every village, and Mathéus lost himself in the depths of profound meditation.
At length, at the end of about an hour, the tail of the procession came clearly in sight; it slowly ascended the hill, soon passed round by the Nideck rock, some few straggling groups following at intervals; these were the sick, the infirm in waggons. They, in their turn, disappeared, and everything returned to the silence of solitude.
The illustrious philosopher then looked at his disciple with a grave air, and said—
“Let us proceed to Haslach—it is there that the Being of Beings calls us. Oh, Coucou Peter, does not your heart tell you that the Great Demiourgos, before bearing us to the scene of our triumphs, has seen fit to offer to our sight a picture of the immense variety of human races in this desert? Do you realise, my friend, the sublime majesty of our mission?”
“Yes, Maître Frantz, I understand clearly enough that we must be getting on our way; but first eat some of these cherries I’ve gathered for you, and then on we go!”
Although Mathéus did not find in these words all the enthusiasm he could have desired, he seated himself, his disciple’s hat between his knees, and ate the cherries with a very good appetite. Coucou Peter having then brought back Bruno, who was cropping the young branches at some distance, Maître Frantz mounted, his disciple took the bridle, and they passed up the sandy path leading to the Roche-Plate.
The sun was setting behind the Losser, and long jets of gold pierced the tops of the tall pines. Many times Mathéus turned to contemplate this imposing sight; but when they had penetrated the woods all became obscure, and Bruno’s hoofs resounded under the dome of the great oaks as in a temple.
About an hour afterwards, when the moon was beginning to peep under the foliage, they perceived, fifty paces below them, a group of pilgrims quietly making their way towards the fair. Coucou Peter at the first glance recognised Hans Aden, Mayor of Dabo, his donkey Schimel, and his little wife Thérèse seated in one of the panniers, but he was altogether surprised to see a chubby child carefully wrapped up and tied in the ass’s other pannier, for Hans Aden had no child that he knew of. They were going along like veritable patriarchs; little Thérèse, with her silk handkerchief tied round her pretty face, looked on her child with inexpressible tenderness; the donkey walked with sure feet along the edge of the slope, cocking his long ears at the least sound, and then, with a melancholy air, tall Hans Aden, dressed in his long overcoat, the tails of which beat against his calves, his three-cornered hat on the back of his head, and his hands in his back pockets, walked slowly, shouting from time to time—
“Hey! Schimel—hey!”
At this sight, and without waiting for Mathéus, Coucou Peter scurried down the path, crying—
“How d’ye do, Maître Hans Aden?—how d’ye do?—where the deuce are you going so late?”
Hans Aden turned round slowly, and his little wife raised her eyes to see who it could be who was addressing them in that fashion.
“Ah! it’s you, is it, Coucou Peter,” said Hans, holding out his hand to him; “good evening. We are making the pilgrimage.”
“The pilgrimage!—what a lucky chance!” cried Coucou Peter, joyously; “we are going there too. Good faith!—an excellent opportunity to renew our acquaintance. But what are you making the pilgrimage for, Maître Hans Aden?—have you anybody sick in your family?”
“No, Coucou Peter, no,” replied the Mayor of Dabo. “Thank God, everybody at home is well. We are going to thank St. Florent for having vouchsafed us a child. You know that my wife and I have been married for five years without having had that happiness: at last my wife said to me, ‘Listen to me, Hans—we must make a pilgrimage; all the wives who make a pilgrimage have children!’ I thought there was no use in it. ‘Bah!’ I said, ‘that’s no good, Thérèse—and, besides, I can’t leave the house; it’s just harvest time; I can’t give up everything.’ ‘Well, then, I’ll go alone,’ she said to me; ‘you are an unbeliever, Hans Aden, and you’ll end badly!’ ‘Well, go by yourself, then, Thérèse,’ I said to her, ‘and we shall see which of us is right!’ Good!—she went; and imagine, Coucou Peter, just nine months after came a baby!—a big, fat baby; the finest and handsomest boy-baby of the mountain! From that time all the women of Dabo have been wanting to make pilgrimages.”
Coucou Peter had listened with singular attention to this story; suddenly he raised his head and said—
“And how long is it since Dame Thérèse went on her pilgrimage?”
“It was this day two years,” replied Hans Aden.
“Two years!” cried Coucou Peter, turning pale, and supporting himself against a tree; “two years!”
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Hans Aden.
“Nothing, Maître Hans—nothing; it’s a weakness that comes into my legs whenever I sit too long.”
At the same time he looked at little Thérèse, who looked down and became as red as a cherry. She appeared shy, and took up the child to give him the breast; but before she had untied the fastenings, Coucou Peter advanced, exclaiming—
“Ah, Maître Hans Aden!—how lucky you are! Everything succeeds with you!—You are the richest herr of the mountain; you have fields and meadows, and here St. Florent sends you the handsomest child in the world! I must have a good look at the little fellow,” he said, taking off his hat to Dame Thérèse; “I’m in love with all the little ones!”
“Stand on no ceremony, Coucou Peter,” cried the mayor, proudly; “anybody may see him—there’s no affront!”
“Kiss him, Monsieur Coucou Peter,” said Dame Thérèse, in a low tone; “kiss him—isn’t he a beauty?”
“Beautiful!” cried Coucou Peter, while two big tears streamed slowly down his red cheeks—“beautiful!—what fists! what a chest! what a laughing face!”
He held the child up, and contemplated it with open eyes; one might have thought he was never going to give it back; the mother turned away her head to dry a tear.
At last the merry fiddler himself put back the little one into the pannier, carefully raising the pillow before laying him down upon it.
“Look you, Dame Thérèse,” he whispered, “children like to have their heads high—don’t forget that.”
He then buckled the strap and laughed with the pretty little mother, while tall Hans Aden stood a few paces off, cutting a hazel switch into a whistle.
Mathéus, who had been retarded by the steepness of the path, now rejoined his disciple.
“Good morning, good people!” cried the illustrious Doctor, raising his broad-brimmed hat. “God’s blessing be upon you!”
“Amen!” replied Hans Aden, returning with his hazel switch.
Dame Thérèse inclined her head gently, and appeared absorbed in the most delightful reveries.
For a quarter of an hour they went on without speaking; Coucou Peter walking beside the donkey, and looking at the child with pleasure, and Maître Frantz, thinking of the events that were in preparation, self-absorbed.
“Are you still going about the country as you used to go, Monsieur Coucou Peter?” asked Thérèse at length, timidly. “Do you not sometimes rest?”
“Always on the tramp, Dame Thérèse—always content! I’m like the bird that has only a branch to perch on at night, and flies away the next day to wherever there’s harvesting going on.”
“You are wrong, Monsieur Coucou Peter,” she said. “You ought to be laying up something against the time when you will be old—so worthy, so honest a man; think what it would be to fall into poverty!”
“What must be must be, Dame Thérèse. I find it enough to get my living from day to day, having nothing but my violin to live by. Besides, I’m not what you take me for to look at me; I’m a prophet! The illustrious Doctor Mathéus will tell you we’ve discovered the peregrination of souls, and are going to preach the truth to the universe.”
These words roused Maître Frantz from his reflections.
“Coucou Peter is right,” he said; “the hour is near, the destinies are about to be accomplished! Then those who have trained the vine and sown the good seed will be glorified! Great changes will be wrought in the earth; the words of truth will pass from mouth to mouth, and the name of Coucou Peter will resound like that of the greatest prophets! The tenderness which this dear disciple has exhibited at the sight of infancy, the age of weakness, gentleness, and simple purity, is a proof of his goodness of soul, and I do not hesitate to predict for him the highest destiny!”
Dame Thérèse looked at Coucou Peter, who modestly cast down his eyes, and it was evident that she was happy to hear so much that was good concerning the brave fiddler.
At that moment they passed out of the wood, and the town of Haslach, with its broad-pointed roofs, its winding streets, and its church of the time of Erwin, met their view. A thousand confused voices rose in the air. All the houses were lit up as for a festival.
They descended the mountain in silence.