CHAPTER V
To see Frantz Mathéus and his disciple descending the narrow path of the Steinbach, through the tall firs, no one would ever have thought that those two extraordinary men were on their way to conquer the world. It is true that the illustrious philosopher, gravely bestriding Bruno, with head erect and pendent legs, had something majestic in his appearance; but Coucou Peter did not in the least look like a real prophet. His jovial countenance, fat stomach, and his cock’s feather, gave him rather the aspect of a jolly drinking companion, who cultivated deplorable prejudices in favour of good cheer, and thought not at all of the disastrous consequences of his physical appetites.
This remark did not inspire Mathéus with any very serious reflections, but he proposed to himself, by putting his follower under a psychologico-anthropo-zoological regime, by inducing moderation, and, in short, by penetrating him with the leading principles of his doctrine, to bring him into a more desirable physical condition.
Coucou Peter looked at the matter from quite another point of view.
“Won’t people be surprised to see me a prophet!” he said to himself. “Ha! ha! ha! the droll dog is always up to something! What the devil is he up to now, preaching about this transformation of bodies and peregrination of souls? What’s the meaning of it? The Strasbourg Almanack, next year, will take notice of it! They’ll draw me on the first page with my violin, and underneath, in large letters, that every one will be able to read, ‘Coucou Peter, son of Yokel Peter, of Lutzelstein, who set out to convert the universe.’ Ha! ha! ha!—you’ll make a good thing out of it, my jolly prophet! Eat enough for four, drink enough for six, and preach temperance to everybody else! And, who knows?—when you grow old you may become chief rabbi of the peregrination of souls, sleep in a feather-bed, let your beard grow, and clap spectacles on your nose! You cunning rascal, I should never have thought of your laying hold of so good a place!”
In spite of himself, however, some few doubts still presented themselves to his mind; these pleasant hopes appeared to him hazardous; he foresaw impediments, and conceived vague apprehensions.
“I say, Maître Frantz,” he said, quickening his pace, “my tongue has been itching to speak for the last quarter of an hour; I want very much to ask you something.”
“Speak out, my good fellow,” replied the Doctor; “don’t stand on ceremony. Do you already feel your noble resolutions shaken by doubt?”
“Exactly—and that bothers me. Are you quite sure about your peregrination of souls, Maître Frantz? For, to tell you the truth, I’ve no recollection of having lived before coming into the world.”
“Am I quite sure!” cried Mathéus. “Do you imagine that I would deceive the world, cast desolation into the midst of families, agitation into cities, disorder into consciences?”
“I don’t say that, Doctor; on the contrary, I’m altogether for the doctrine. But, mind you, there are many others who won’t believe in it, and who will say, ‘What the devil does he mean by bothering us with stuff about his souls that go back into the bodies of animals?—does he take us for fools? Souls that travel about!—souls that go up and down the ladder of being!—souls on four feet, and souls that sprout with leaves! Ha! ha! ha! the man is mad! he’s mad!’ I don’t say that, Maître Frantz; it’s other people, you understand? I believe everything; but let’s see how you will answer the others.”
“What shall I reply to them?” cried Mathéus, pale with indignation.
“That’s it; what will you reply to these unbelievers—these good-for-nothings?”
The illustrious philosopher had stopped in the middle of the path; he raised himself in his stirrups and cried, in a ringing voice—
“Miserable sophists! disciples of error and false doctrines! your captious quibbles, your scholastic subtleties, will avail you nothing against me! In vain would you attempt to obscure the planet which shines in the skyey vault—that planet which gives you light and warmth, and to nature its fecundity! In spite of your blasphemies, in spite of your ingratitude, it ceases not to shed its bounties! What need have I to see the soul that inspires me with the noblest of thoughts? Is it not ever present in my being—is it not myself? Cut off these arms, these legs; will Frantz Mathéus by that means be diminished, from an intellectual and moral point of view? No; the body is but the outer case—the soul is eternal! Ah! Coucou Peter, place your hand upon your heart, see before you that immense vault, the image of grandeur and harmony, and then dare to deny the Being of beings, the First Cause of this magnificent creation!”
When Mathéus had improvised this discourse, Coucou Peter looked at him with one eye cunningly closed, and said—
“Very good—very good; you’ve only to talk to peasants in that fashion, and all will be right.”
“You believe, then, in the peregrination of souls?”
“Yes, yes! We shall swamp all the preachers in the country; there’s not one of them able to speak so long as you without taking breath; others have to blow their noses or to cough now and then to pick up the thread of their discourse; but you—right on you go! It’s magnificent! magnificent!”
By this time they had arrived at the crossing of the Three Springs, and Doctor Mathéus stopped—
“Here are three paths,” he said. “Providence, which ceaselessly watches over the fate of great men, will point out to us the one we ought to follow, and will inspire us with a resolution, the consequences of which, for the progress of enlightenment and civilisation, are incalculable.”
“You’re not wrong, illustrious Doctor Frantz,” said Coucou Peter; “Providence has just whispered in my ear that to-day is Saint Boniface’s day—the day when Mother Windling, the widow of Windling, the public-house-keeper of Oberbronn, every year kills a fat pig; we shall arrive in the nick of time for black-pudding and foaming beer.”
“But we shall not be able to commence our preaching!” cried Mathéus, scandalised at the sensual tendencies of his disciple.
“On the contrary, all will go well together. Mother Windling’s public-house will be full of company, and we’ll begin to preach at once.”
“You think there will be a considerable number of people there?”
“Not a doubt of it; all the village will be there to eat grills.”
“Well, then, let us go to Oberbronn.”
They went on, and towards five o’clock in the afternoon the illustrious philosopher and his disciple turned majestically into the only street of Oberbronn.
The animation of the village delighted Mathéus; for above everything the good man loved country life. The perfume of grass and flowers that filled the air at the haymaking season; the big waggons standing loaded up to the garret-windows of the houses, while the oxen, resting from their work with legs outstretched to get at bundles of hay hanging on the shining points of prongs of pitchforks; the mowers reclining in the shade to refresh themselves; the regular tic-tac of the threshers; the clouds of dust escaping from the ventholes; the shouts of laughter of young girls romping in the barn; the honest faces of old men with white and bony heads stooping at the windows, cotton caps upon their bald pates; children escaping out of sight in the interior of cottages, where hanks of flax hang about large cast-iron stoves, and old women sing infants to sleep; dogs wandering about and barking at the passers; the chirping of the sparrows, disposing themselves on the roofs, or audaciously swooping down upon the sheaves in the shed—all this was life and happiness to Doctor Frantz. For a moment he thought of going back to Graufthal. Even Bruno raised his head, and pleasant cries greeted Coucou Peter all along the road.
“Ha!—here’s Coucou Peter come to eat black-pudding! Now we shall have some fun! Good day, Coucou Peter!”
“Good day, Karl! Good day, Heinrich! Good day, Christian—good day, good day!”
He shook hands right and left; but all eyes were turned towards Mathéus, whose grave air, good cloth clothes, and big horse, shining with fat, inspired the deepest respect.
“It’s a curé! It’s a minister! It’s a tooth-drawer!” they said amongst themselves.
Some of them questioned Coucou Peter in whispers, but he had not time to answer their inquiries, and hastened after the Doctor.
They at last reached the turn of the street, and Frantz Mathéus immediately conceived the happiest auguries on discovering the Widow Windling’s public-house. A young peasant-girl was neatly whitewashing the sides of a wooden balcony. Between two doors was to be seen a superb porker hanging upon a wooden frame, and laid open from the neck to the tail; it was white, it was red, it was washed, shaved, and cleansed; in fine, it was delightful to see. A big shepherd’s dog, with long grey hair, was lapping up a few drops of blood from the pavement. The windows were of antique form. Poplars rustled in the air. The immense boarded roof overspread the wood-store, press-house, and yard, in which a troop of pretty fowls were clucking and pecking. On the perch of a dovecot were a pair of magnificent blue pigeons, cooing and swelling out their chests. Everything, indeed, gave to Mother Windling’s house a truly hospitable physiognomy.
“Hallo! hallo! hallo! You, there! Hans! Karl! Ludwig!—will you come out, you idlers?” cried the fiddler as he approached. “What! aren’t you ashamed of yourselves to leave the learned Doctor Mathéus at the door?”
The house was full of customers, and it might have been supposed that a visiting controller, a garde général, or even an under-prefect, had arrived, so loudly did he raise his voice, and such airs of importance did he give himself.
Nickel the serving-man appeared at the outer gate in a state of alarm, crying, “Good gracious! what’s all this noise about?”
“What’s it about, you unfortunate! Don’t you see the illustrious Doctor Mathéus, the inventor of the peregrination of souls, waiting for you to hold his stirrup? Make haste!—lead his horse to the stable; but, I warn you, I shall have an eye on the manger, and if there is but a single atom of straw amongst the oats, you shall answer to me for it on your head!”
Mathéus then alighted, and the domestic hastened to obey the orders given him.
The illustrious Doctor did not know that to enter the principal room it was necessary to pass through the kitchen; he was thus agreeably surprised by the spectacle offered to his view. They were in the midst of the preparations for the black-puddings; the fire burned brightly on the hearth; the dishes on the dresser-shelves shone like suns; little Michel stirred the contents of the pot with marvellous regularity; Dame Catherina Windling, her sleeves turned up to her elbows, stood before the tub, majestically holding the large ladle filled with milk, blood, onions, and chopped marjoram. She poured slowly, while fat Soffayel, her servant, held open the skin, so that the agreeable mixture might conveniently fill it.
Coucou Peter remained like one petrified before this delicious picture; he opened his eyes, dilated his nostrils, and inhaled the perfume of the saucepans. At last, in expressive tones, he cried—
“Good heavens! what a jollification we’re going to have here! what a feast!”
Dame Catherina turned her head and joyously exclaimed—
“Ah! Coucou Peter! I expected you! You never forget to come in time for the puddings.”
“Forget! No, no, Dame Catherina, I’m incapable of such ingratitude. They’ve done me too much good for me ever to forget them.”
Then, advancing with a grave air, he took from her hand the large ladle, plunged it into the tub, and for some seconds examined the mixture with a truly psychological attention.
Dame Catherina crossed her red arms, and appeared to await his judgment; at the end of a minute he raised his head, and said—
“With all due respect to you, Dame Catherina, a little more milk is wanted here; the milk should never be stinted—it gives the delicacy; it is, as one may say, the soul of the pudding.”
“That’s just what I’ve been saying,” cried Mother Windling; “didn’t I say to you, Soffayel, that a little more milk would do no harm?”
“Yes, Dame Catherina, you said that.”
“Well, now I’m altogether sure of it. Run and fetch the milk-jug. How many ladlesful do you think, Coucou Peter?”
The fiddler again examined the mixture, and replied—
“Three ladlesful, Dame Catherina; three full ladles! Indeed, in your place, I should put in four.”
“We’ll put in four,” said the good woman. “It’ll make sure.”
At that moment she perceived Mathéus, an unmoved spectator of the gastronomic council.
“Ah! good heavens! I did not see this gentleman! Is this gentleman with you, Coucou Peter?”
“It’s a friend of mine,” said the fiddler; “the learned Doctor Mathéus, of Graufthal—an intimate friend of mine! We are travelling for our own pleasure and to spread the lights of civilisation.”
“Ah, Doctor, pray forgive me!” said Mother Windling; “we are up to the eyes in puddings! Come in, and pray excuse us.”
The illustrious philosopher made several low bows, as if to say, “Don’t think of apologising;” but he was thinking all the time, “This woman belongs to the order Gallinæ,[1] a prolific race, naturally voluptuous and fond of good living;” as her lively eyes, fat and rosy cheeks, and her slightly upturned though large nose, sufficiently proved.
[1] This order includes domestic poultry.
This was what the Doctor thought, and certainly he was not wrong; for Mother Windling had led a free-and-easy life in her day; stories were told of her—stories—in fact, extraordinary things; and, in spite of her forty years, she had still very pleasant eyes.
Mathéus entered the principal room, and seating himself at the end of the deal table, gave himself up to judicious reflections, while Coucou Peter rinsed out the glasses, and ordered Soffayel to fetch a bottle of wolxheim to refresh the illustrious Doctor.
While the servant was gone to the cellar, Dame Catherina went up to the fiddler, and, laying her hand on his shoulder, said to him in a whisper—
“Coucou Peter, this gentleman is your friend?”
“My intimate friend, Dame Catherina.”
“A handsome man,” she said, looking him full in the face.
“Aha!” said Coucou Peter, looking at her in the same way and with a strange smile; “do you think so, Dame Catherina?”
“Yes, I think him quite a gentleman.”
“Ha! ha!” said Coucou Peter, “I should rather think so; a man with land of his own, a savant, a first-rate physician.”
“A physician, a man with an estate,” repeated Dame Catherina. “You haven’t told me all, Peter, I can see by your face. What has brought him here?”
“Ha! how sly you are, Dame Catherina!” cried Coucou Peter with a wink; “you see things any distance off! If I dare say all—but there are things——”
He went on wiping the glasses dry.
“Tell me, Dame Catherina, does the miller Tapihans still come to see you?”
“Tapihans!” cried Mother Windling; “don’t speak of him to me! I laugh at him; he wants to marry my house, my garden, my five-and-twenty acres of meadow-land, the shabby fellow!”
“Take my word for it, he’s not at all the sort of man you want,” replied the fiddler; “the sort of man to suit you is——”
Fat Soffayel came up the cellar-stairs at the moment, and Dame Catherina appeared beaming.
“That’s right—that’s right,” she said, taking the bottle; “I’ll go and wait upon the gentleman myself. Go, Soffayel, and put four good ladlesful of milk into the tub. Look and see whether I am tidy, Coucou Peter—is my hair out of order?”
“You are as fresh as a rose, Dame Catherina.”
“Do I really look so?”
“Yes; and you smell like a dish of strawberries.”
“Go along with your nonsense!” she cried.
Then Mother Windling carefully wiped her arms on the towel that hung behind the door, took the bottle, and tripped into the principal room like a young girl.
Frantz Mathéus was seated by an open window, watching the labours of old Baumgarten’s bees, whose hive was just in front of it; broad streaks of sunlight pierced the flowering rose-trees, and the illustrious philosopher, plunged in a soft reverie, listened to the vague hum raised by the insects at the close of day.
At this moment Mother Windling entered; behind her came Coucou Peter, gaily, with three glasses in his hand.
“Make yourself comfortable, Dr. Mathéus,” he cried; “you are tired, the day is hot; give me your overcoat, and let me hang it up on this peg.”
“Yes, yes,” said the good woman; “pray make yourself quite at home. Coucou Peter has told me your name, and Doctor Mathéus is well known in this part of the country—it’s a great honour to receive you in our house.”
Mathéus, moved by a reception so flattering, raised his eyes blushingly, and replied—
“You are very good, my dear madam; I regret not having brought with me a copy of the Anthropo-Zoology, to do homage to you with it, and to show my gratitude.”
“Oh, we love men of intellect!” cried Mother Windling; “I love men of mark!”
As she spoke she looked at him with so tender an air that the good man felt quite embarrassed.
“It’s not a Tapihans, a man of no means, a miller,” she continued, “that gives me so much pleasure to serve. But only to hear the scandalous tongues of the village! A report has been spread that we are going to be married, because he comes here every evening to take his glass. Heaven preserve me from wishing for such a mere breath of a man! It’s quite enough to have been left a widow once.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Mathéus, “I have no doubt of it! Be sure that these reports have no influence on me; it would be contrary to my philosophical principles.”
The fiddler then filled the glasses, crying—
“Come, Dame Catherina, you must clink glasses with the Doctor. Your health, Doctor Frantz!”
Mother Windling did not disdain the wolxheim; she drank the health of Doctor Mathéus like a veritable hussar. Then, without ceremony, she relieved him of his greatcoat, and, with his wide-brimmed hat, hung it upon one of the pegs on the wall.
“I must have you quite comfortable, and I see you are not at your ease. I stand on no ceremony. Come, Coucou Peter, another glass, and then I’ll go back to the kitchen to see about your supper. By-the-bye, Doctor, you must tell me what you like best—something roasted, a fricassé of chicken?”
“I assure you, madam,” replied Mathéus, “I have no preference.”
“No, no, no; that won’t do. There must surely be something you like.”
Coucou Peter gave her a wink as much as to assure her that he knew the Doctor’s favourite dish.
“Very well,” cried the good woman, “we’ll contrive something.”
After that she emptied her glass at a draught, smiled at Doctor Mathéus, and went out of the room, promising soon to return. Coucou Peter followed her for the purpose of getting her to prepare a dish of küchlen, of which he was very fond himself, and with which he supposed the illustrious philosopher must also be pleased. Frantz Mathéus, in delicious calm, remained by the open window. He heard Mother Windling’s voice giving orders, the bustle of the kitchen, the going and coming; he attributed this attention to the reputation which his magnificent work had already attained in the world, and congratulated himself on the generous resolution he had taken of enlightening the universe.