CHAPTER XI.
Daylight was spreading its golden hues upon the posts of the shed when Mathéus was awakened by ringing shouts of laughter.
“Ha! ha! ha! See—see, Dame Thérèse!” cried Coucou Peter. “Look at the little rascal! Isn’t he cunning? Isn’t he? He’s born to be hanged!—ha! ha! ha!—he’s certainly born to be hanged!”
Maître Frantz, having turned his eyes in the direction whence these joyous exclamations proceeded, saw his disciple near a trellis adjoining the Three Roses. This trellis, decked with trees, was covered with magnificent peaches. Coucou Peter was holding out one of these peaches to the child in its pannier on Schimel’s back. The child extended his little hands to seize it, and the jolly fiddler advanced and drew it back, laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks.
Dame Thérèse, from the other side, looked at the infant with a tender smile; she appeared very happy, and yet there was a vague melancholy in her look; Hans Aden gravely looked on, as he smoked his pipe with his elbow resting on the paling.
Nothing more charming than this morning picture could be looked upon; there was so much of unaffected gaiety, good-humour, and tenderness imprinted on the features of Coucou Peter, that Maître Frantz said to himself—“What an honest face! how like a child he amuses himself! How happy he is! how lighthearted! He is the best lad I have ever known! What a pity that his sensual instincts and disorderly love of the flask often carry him beyond the limits of propriety!”
While these thoughts were passing through his mind, the good man rose and shook the straw from his clothes; he then advanced, took off his hat, and saluted the worthy people, wishing them “Good day.”
Dame Thérèse replied by a simple inclination of the head, so absent-minded was she; but Coucou Peter cried—
“Maître Frantz, look at this beautiful child! what fun he is! Tell us what race he belongs to!”
“This child belongs to the bullfinch family,” replied Mathéus, unhesitatingly.
“To the bullfinch family!” cried Coucou Peter, taken completely by surprise. “Faith, not to flatter you, Maître Frantz—I—I think he has very good anthropo-zoological reasons for belonging to the family of the bullfinches.”
Hans Aden having finished his pipe, put it in his pocket, and said to his wife—
“Come, Thérèse, come; it’s time to go into the fair before it becomes too crowded.”
“Are you going with us, Maître Frantz?” inquired Coucou Peter.
“Certainly; where is Bruno?”
“In the stable; you’ve no need to take him. Dame Thérèse is going to buy all sorts of things; but for that, we should leave Schimel also.”
These explanations were enough for Mathéus; and they all set forth.
The whole town was filled with people; the waggons and cattle had been cleared away by order of the mayor. Garlands were hung from the windows, leaves and flowers were scattered in the streets, and in the market-place rose a superb altar; but what more than anything pleased the illustrious philosopher was the pleasant scent of moss and fresh-gathered flowers, and the garlands waving in the air at every movement of the breeze.
He admired also the young peasant-girls with their head-dresses and bodies dotted with glittering spangles; the old women, who were decorating the altar with vases and candlesticks, were still more magnificent, for they wore the old costume of yellow or violet flowered silk and gold-brocaded coif, the richest costume ever seen.
“Maître Frantz,” said Coucou Peter, “they worked better in the olden times. I recollect that my grandmother had a dress that had belonged to her grandmother, and that was still new; nowadays everything becomes old in four or five years.”
“Except truth, my friend. Truth is always young: what Pythagoras said two thousand years ago is as true as if he had said it yesterday.”
“Yes, it’s like old violins,” replied Coucou Peter; “the more you play upon them the better they sound, until they get cracked; they can be mended, but by going on putting in new pieces, nothing of the old fiddle is left, and the music becomes poor.”
Chattering in this way, our good folks arrived at the fair. The crowd was already great: a thousand confused sounds, of whistles, fifes, and children’s trumpets, rang in the ears; the wooden stalls exhibited in the open air their hardwares, wooden swords, dolls, looking-glasses, and Nuremberg clocks; the voices of sellers calling their wares drowned one another.
Coucou Peter would have liked to have made a present to Dame Thérèse; he fumbled ceaselessly in his empty pockets, thinking by what means he could get some money. For a moment he had an idea of going back to the public-house and selling Bruno’s saddle and bridle to the first Jew who happened to pass; but Hans Aden having remained behind, another inspiration came into his head.
“Maître Frantz,” he said, “take hold of Schimel’s bridle; I’ll be back directly.”
He then hurried to Hans Aden, and said to him—
“Monsieur Mayor, I have forgotten my purse at the public-house, for my illustrious master and I have our money in Bruno’s saddle; lend me ten francs; I’ll return them to you by-and-by.”
“With pleasure,” said Hans Aden, pulling a somewhat wry face—“with pleasure;” and he gave him ten francs.
Coucou Peter, now as proud as a cock, took Dame Thérèse under his arm, and led her to the handsomest stall.
“Dame Thérèse,” he cried, “choose whatever you like. Will you have this shawl, these ribbons, this fichu?—will you have all the shop? Don’t hesitate.”
She did not want to accept anything but a simple rose-coloured ribbon, but he forced her to take a superb shawl.
“Oh, Monsieur Coucou Peter,” she said, “let me have the ribbon.”
“Keep both the ribbon and the shawl, Dame Thérèse! Keep them for love of me,” he cried in a low tone; “if you only knew how much pleasure it gives me!”
He bought also a sugar dog for the child, then some gilt filberts, then a little drum—and indeed did not leave off buying till his ten francs were spent to the last centime. He then appeared in his glory; and when Hans Aden rejoined them, he was well pleased to see that Coucou Peter had shown such attention to his wife.
As for the philosopher, the sight of this great assemblage strangely exalted him; he wished to begin to preach, and every moment exclaimed—
“Coucou Peter, I think it is time to preach. Look at this crowd—what a magnificent occasion for announcing the doctrine!”
“Don’t think of it, Maître Frantz—don’t think of it for a moment! Here’s the gendarme going by—he’d have you in his grip at once; none but quacks have the right of preaching in the fair.”
In this way they made the circuit of the market-place three times. Dame Thérèse purchased all she needed for her housekeeping: a scrubbing-brush, some tin ladles, a slice, and other articles of a like kind; Hans Aden bought a scythe that gave a clear ringing sound, some wooden shoes, and a currycomb.
Towards ten o’clock Schimel’s panniers were full of things; the crowd became more and more numerous, and raised clouds of dust; in the distance was heard the whirling waltz.
In making their way towards the Three Roses, they passed by the Madame Hutte, and such sounds of gaiety fell upon their ears that tall Hans Aden himself stopped to look at the spectacle.
A flag floated above the booth; girls and youths flocked to the door; the pretty dress of the Kokesbergers, with their hair-plaits decked with ribbons; that of the women of Bouren-Grédel, with their watered-silk neckties hanging down the back of the neck, their red petticoats, their well-fitting white stockings, and high-heeled shoes; the mountaineers in their broad-brimmed hats ornamented with an oak leaf; the Alsatians, in three-cornered hats, square-tailed coats, scarlet waistcoats, and short breeches, presented an admirable picture. The crowd was drawn towards this point.
Dame Thérèse felt an inexpressible desire to dance; her hand trembled on the arm of Coucou Peter, who looked up at her tenderly, and whispered—
“Dame Thérèse, shall we have a waltz?”
“I should like it,” she murmured, “but the child—I dare not leave it; and besides—what would Hans Aden say?”
“Bah!—don’t be uneasy, Dame Thérèse; a waltz is soon over. The child has nothing to fear—he’s so sound asleep!”
“No, Monsieur Coucou Peter, I dare not! Hans Aden would not like it.”
They were discussing the matter in this manner, and Dame Thérèse would have given way perhaps, when the church-bells began to ring, and it was no longer to be thought of.
“Thérèse,” said Hans Aden, “there’s the third stroke; let us get back to the public-house, or we shall be late.”
“No need for that, Monsieur Mayor,” replied Coucou Peter; “you can go from here. I’ll take Schimel back, and we’ll wait dinner for you.—You’ll do us the favour to accept dinner, Maître Hans Aden and Dame Thérèse?”
Hans Aden thought Monsieur Coucou Peter a very good fellow, and Dame Thérèse took from Schimel’s pannier the shawl he had bought for her; she put it on, and as she did so she cast a tender look at the good fiddler, who felt the tears come into his eyes. She then took up her child, from which she would not part company, especially as the benediction of St. Florent could do it nothing but good, and, all being arranged, the party separated in front of the church.
Coucou Peter took the lower road, so as not to meet the faithful in the Rue du Tonnelet Rouge.
Mathéus gravely followed him, allowing his eyes to wander, and recapitulating his invincible proofs. The pealing of the bells shook the air; the bright sun, casting its rays upon the moving crowd, all astonished the good man; and the hope of shortly preaching made him see everything from an agreeable point of view.
They were passing along by gardens on the slope of the hill; from time to time they heard the report of a gun, and saw puffs of smoke rolling in the air; the noise of the crowd died away insensibly, and fresh grass replaced the dust of the streets.
Turning round by the fountain where the cattle of the town were brought to drink, he saw sportsmen, gamekeepers in green dresses, and a good number of peasants contesting for the prize of a sheep.
The target was placed on the opposite side of the hill in front of a large oak; shooters standing behind garden rails tried their guns, put the locks on full-cock, shook their heads; some betted, others threw themselves into attitudes as though they were playing at skittles; and each thought himself cleverer than the one who missed his mark.
Frantz Mathéus, whom the sound of a gun always made tremble, hurried by into Acacia Lane, the solitude of which, after so many tumultuous scenes, had a strange charm. All the inhabitants of Haslach were at church.
At the last sound of the church-bells the firing was repeated; the prelude of the organ was heard from a distance. Maître Frantz and his disciple turned into the Rue du Tonnelet Rouge in front of the Three Roses.