CHAPTER XIX.
When Frantz Mathéus and the pastor reached the house, everybody there was asleep. The pastor, leaving Mathéus at the door of the sitting-room, went into the kitchen, and returned after a few minutes with a light.
Calmness had succeeded the good man’s agitation; he mechanically followed his host, who conducted him to a little bedroom on the first-floor, looking into the parsonage garden.
The tops of the trees beat gently against the windows; the linen on the bed was of surprising whiteness; and the old oaken furniture seemed to welcome him with an air of naïve familiarity. But, in his sadness, the illustrious philosopher remarked none of these details, but sat down, uttering a profound sigh.
“Come, my dear monsieur,” said the pastor, “forget the little annoyances of the philosophical career; have a good sleep, and to-morrow you will be as fresh and active as if you had achieved the most magnificent victory.”
He shook Maître’s Frantz’s hand, placed the candle on the table, and then went quietly to rest after his fatigues.
When the pastor’s steps could no longer be heard, and the silence of night reigned throughout the house, Mathéus, with his elbows resting on the table and his head between his hands, sat watching the burning of the candle with an indescribably downcast air; he was thinking of nothing, and yet he was sad—sad as if the Great Demiourgos had abandoned him!
About one o’clock he heard a child crying in a neighbouring house, and the mother trying to hush it with tender words. That child-voice, so weak and soft—that mother’s voice, more gentle still—touched the good man’s heart, and a tear moistened his eyes. The child being at length appeased, the silence became more profound, and Maître Frantz, overcome by fatigue, ended by falling asleep with his forehead on the table.
When he awoke, daylight was beginning to show itself at the windows, and the candle was flaring in a red flame from the hollow of the candlestick. All the events of the night then returned to his memory. He rose and opened the window.
The birds were already warbling in the garden; some labourers, with pickaxe on shoulder, chatted as they passed the gate, their voices, at this early hour, being heard from one end of the street to the other. Milk-sellers from Dagsberg, with their large tin cans under their arms, were sitting about on neighbouring posts, and servants, short-petticoated and bare-armed, were coming one by one to buy milk for their houses. All these worthy people had a look of health pleasant to see. The servant-girls stopped to gossip about christenings, marriages, and the departure of the conscripts; and the tradespeople opened their shops and hung out their goods at their doors. Some fresh event happened every moment; then the mountain-air came down so fresh and pure, that the chest expanded with pleasure, and, as it were, breathed by itself.
Maître Frantz, inspirited by this cheerful sight, began to see things from a more agreeable point of view; he was, in fact, astonished at himself for his groundless fears, for no one could possibly forbid him to teach a doctrine founded on the highest morality and the soundest logic. A very little was needed to make him seriously determined to denounce himself to the procureur; but his prudence showed him that he might, in the first place, be shut up in prison, pending inquiry into the doctrine, and this judicious reflection cooled his enthusiasm. “Frantz Mathéus,” he said to himself, “you are possessed of too great a psychological ardour. Doubtless it would be delightful to suffer persecution and martyrdom for immutable truth; it would be very delightful—but what end would it serve? If you are put in prison, who will preach anthropo-zoology to the human race? It could not be done by Coucou Peter, a man with little faith, and naturally inclined to the enjoyments of the flesh. It will be better for you to go—it is wisdom that directs you! Above all, Frantz, be on your guard against your extraordinary audacity—true courage consists in conquering one’s passions!”
When the illustrious philosopher had come to this moral understanding with himself, he resolved to set off at once to Strasbourg without a moment’s loss of time. Consequently he put on his wide-brimmed hat and descended on tiptoe to the hall. But, as he was passing the door of a small room under the stairs, and hesitated for an instant, not knowing whether to turn to right or left, the voice of his disciple called to him from the interior—
“Who’s there?”
“It is I, my friend.”
“Ah! is it you, Doctor?”
At the same time, Mathéus heard some one get out of bed, and Coucou Peter, in his shirt, appeared on the threshold.
“What the deuce are you doing about so early?” cried the merry fiddler.
“There’s good reason for it,” Mathéus replied. “You do not know what I learned yesterday, at the casino—that we are being pursued!”
“Pursued!” cried Coucou Peter, pushing back his nightcap on to the nape of his neck; “pursued—by whom?”
“By the gendarmes.”
“For what?”
“For preaching the doctrine.”
“The doctrine! Ah, the scoundrels! I see how it is: they’re afraid of losing their places; because if we were the masters, it is we who would be the rabbis.”
“That’s it! They threaten us with the galleys.”
Coucou Peter stood with wide-open eyes and mouth. At the same time a voice, from the depths of the room, cried—
“In Heaven’s name, save yourself, Peter!—fly!”
“Don’t be alarmed, Gredel—don’t be alarmed,” said the fiddler. “Poor little woman, how she loves me! We’ll be off at once. The galleys! Ah, the rascals!—Where shall we go, Maître Frantz?”
“To Strasbourg.”
“Yes, let’s go to Strasbourg. Gredel, get up and make us some breakfast. Go back to your room, Maître Frantz; in five minutes I shall be ready.”
The illustrious philosopher returned to his chamber, and Coucou Peter shortly rejoined him, buttoning on his braces.
“My wife is already in the kitchen, Maître Frantz,” he said; “I’ll go and saddle Bruno, and in less than an hour we shall be off.”
Mathéus, however, returned in the course of a few minutes, to tell him what had passed on the previous night. Coucou Peter learned with pleasure that they were being sought in the neighbourhood of Haslach.
“Good!” he said—“good! We need not be in a hurry, but may get our breakfast quietly.”
Together they went down into the kitchen, and found Gredel cooking steaks on the gridiron and preparing the coffee.
The grey hues of morning were spreading through the kitchen, the fire crackled, thousands of glittering sparks flew up the black chimney, and Maître Frantz sat gravely contemplating the scene and thinking of Graufthal.
At the end of a quarter of an hour, Coucou Peter returned and reported that Bruno had eaten his feed of oats with visible satisfaction. Then, turning to his wife, “Give me your best knife, Gredel,” he said; “I want it.”
“What do you want with it?” she asked.
“You’ll see—you’ll see presently.”
As soon as he had got the knife, he raised himself upon the hearth, and seizing a smoked sausage, as thick as his arm, hanging in the chimney, cut it in two; he then did the same with a ham, and appeared highly satisfied with his labour.
“If we are forced to take to the woods, Maître Frantz,” he said, “we’ll not be driven to eat mast like Saint Antoine.”
“Ah! it’s not you, you rogue, who will ever die of hunger!” cried his wife; “you’d pawn your breeches first!”
“How well you know me, Gredel!—how well you know me!” cried the gay fiddler, kissing her affectionately.
He then went out to put his provisions in a haversack.
“Is it really true, Doctor,” asked Gredel, as soon as he was out of hearing, “that you wish to make him Chief Rabbi of the peregrination of souls? The fact is, he has told me so many stories, that I can’t now believe anything he says.”
“Yes, my child, it is true,” said the good man; “your husband, notwithstanding his gay humour and natural lightness of character, has a good heart; I am fond of him, and he will succeed me in the government of souls.”
“Oh!” she cried, “I know that he’s a good fellow, and an honest one; but he is so light—he’s given me a deal of uneasiness, the rascal! I can’t help loving him, all the same; for he has his good side, if one can only get at it.”
“Well said—well said, my child!” said Mathéus, touched by Gredel’s naïve answer; “Coucou Peter will yet do you honour; he will be spoken of in distant ages.”
Proud at hearing this, Gredel hastened to lay the cloth in the dining-room, and Coucou Peter having again come in, they made a hearty breakfast of bread-and-butter, coffee, and steaks. Monsieur Schweitzer, hearing the clatter of glasses, came down hurriedly in his breeches, and, seeing the party at table, burst into a loud fit of laughter.
“Very good!—very good!” he cried. “I’m glad to see you are quite yourself again!”
Maître Frantz at once explained to him his approaching departure.
“Well, my dear monsieur,” said the pastor, seating himself, “in spite of the great pleasure I should have felt in keeping you longer here, I cannot but approve your prudence. Kitzig would be sure to find you out, and all his affection for me would not prevent your being involved in a most unpleasant piece of business. Things being so, let us have a glass together. Gredel, here is the key of the little cellar; bring a bottle from under the firewood.”
Every one ate and drank with a good appetite. Maître Frantz was sorry to leave such worthy people; but, about six, the time had come to separate. The good man embraced the pastor; Coucou Peter kissed his wife, who shed tears at parting with the rascal. They were conducted to the yard, where Bruno was in waiting. Mathéus being mounted, the Pastor Schweitzer shook him warmly by the hand, and Gredel could not detach herself from Coucou Peter’s neck. At length they departed, amid the blessings and good wishes of the whole family.