CHAPTER XXI.
Nine o’clock was striking at the Cathedral when Frantz Mathéus and his disciple stopped in front of the Heron brewery. The great yard, shaded by lime-trees, was full of company; a troop of gipsies accompanied the tumult with their wild music. Kasper Müller, the brewer, in his shirt-sleeves, went from table to table, shaking hands and interchanging jocular greetings with the drinkers; and all these figures, grave and comic, hidden in the shade, or distinctly seen in the uncertain light, presented a truly strange spectacle.
The illustrious philosopher, however, instead of giving himself up to his habitual reflections on the affinities of races, looked on all with a dull eye. It might have been said, to see him with outstretched neck and dangling legs, that he despaired of the doctrine, and of the future of the generations to come.
“Come, Maître Frantz,” said Coucou Peter to him, “courage! Go into your friend Georges Müller’s house; he can’t fail to recognise you—then, hurrah! If we can only find a lodging for to-night, to-morrow we’ll convert the world!”
Mathéus obeyed mechanically; he alighted, buttoned his brown greatcoat, and advanced with trembling steps into the yard, casting undecided glances at all the groups, and not knowing whom to address.
Presently Kasper Müller perceived him wandering under the roofs like a troubled spirit; the good man’s face, stamped with sadness, interested him greatly. He came forward to meet him, and inquired what he needed.
“Monsieur,” replied Mathéus, with a low bow, “will you have the kindness to tell me where I can find Georges Müller?”
“Georges Müller? He’s been dead these fifteen years!”
“Good heavens! Is it possible to be more unfortunate than I am?” cried the good man, in a choking voice.
He bowed again, and was moving towards the gate; but the brewer, touched by the sadness of this exclamation, detained him, and taking him aside, said, kindly—
“Excuse me, monsieur; you appear to be in some pressing need. Can I not render you the service you expected of Georges Müller?”
“It is true,” replied Mathéus, his eyes filling with tears, “I am in pressing want. I came to ask a lodging for the night of Georges Müller, one of my oldest and dearest acquaintances. Though I have not seen him for five-and-thirty years—the time at which I finished my studies—I am sure his heart had not changed, and that he would have given me a welcome.”
“I have no doubt of it—I have no doubt of it,” replied the brewer; “and I, his son, will not refuse it to you, be sure of it.”
“You the son of Georges Müller!” cried Mathéus. “You must be little Kasper, then, whom I have so often rocked on my knees! Ah! my dear child, how happy I am to see you again! I should not have recognised you, with those big whiskers and that great ruddy face!”
Kasper could not help smiling at the doctor’s simplicity; but, seeing a crowd of drinkers gathering about them, he took him into the great dining-room, then empty, to ascertain more exactly the state of his affairs. Maître Frantz, without beating about the bush, informed him under what circumstances he had quitted Graufthal, and acquainted him with the innumerable vicissitudes of his anthropo-zoological peregrinations; and Kasper Müller, familiarly placing his hands on the Doctor’s shoulders, cried—
“You are a good and excellent man! Does not your name appear on the registry of my birth?”
“Doubtless,” replied the illustrious philosopher; “Maître Georges had me for a witness.”
“Eh! what need of further explanation is there?” interrupted the brewer. “You will remain in my house to-night, that’s understood. I’ll have your horse taken to the stable, and send your disciple to you.”
This said, he quitted Mathéus to go and give his orders.
Coucou Peter had scarcely rejoined the illustrious Doctor in the chief dining-room, before Charlotte, one of the servants of the house, came to inform them that all was ready. In spite of this agreeable news, Frantz Mathéus could not help feeling deeply melancholy. It seemed to him that the Great Demiourgos, instead of leaving him to have recourse to Georges Müller, might have given to him, himself, all things necessary to philosophic existence, the more as it was solely for his glory that he had left Graufthal without taking with him a single sou.
But Coucou Peter, surprised at finding such a good resting-place, instead of having to sleep under the stars, was astonished at everything—at the size of the hotel, at the stairs, furnished with a handsome copper hand-rail, at the number of the rooms; and when Charlotte conducted them into a neat room, and he saw on a round table the supper already smoking, including half a stuffed turkey, his gratitude expressed itself warmly. “O Great Being!” he cried, “Being of Beings! now is manifested thy boundless power and infinite wisdom! What a banquet for poor devils of philosophers, who expected to have to sleep in the street!”
He uttered these words in such an expressive tone of voice that Charlotte instantly conceived an affection for him; but the illustrious Doctor made no reply, for he was truly downcast, and making sad reflections on the philosophic career.
Reflecting that the greatest philosopher of modern times, the successor of Pythagoras, of Philolaus, and all the sages of India and Egypt, the illustrious Frantz Mathéus of Graufthal, instead of being received by the population with enthusiasm, of being borne in triumph over roads strewn with palm, had run the risk of having to lie in the street and of dying of hunger, he became deeply melancholy, and while he ate, bitterly recapitulated in his mind the events of his journey; the beating he had received at Oberbronn, Jacob Fischer’s attempt to seize Bruno, the threat of the Procureur of Saverne, and the proposition of Coucou Peter to go and sing in the beerhouses. This last circumstance above all wounded him to the depths of his soul, and every now and then large tears filled his eyes; for he saw himself, like Belisarius, holding out his hand for charity at a street-corner.
Coucou Peter at first paid no attention to his distressed aspect; but towards the end of the meal he perceived it, and cried, as he set down his glass—
“What the deuce are you thinking of, Maître Mathéus? I never saw you looking like this before!”
“I am thinking,” replied the good man, “that human kind is unworthy to know the sublime truths of anthropo-zoology. The peoples appear to me to be struck with a deplorable—and I must say wilful—blindness; for if they are blind, it is because they choose to be so. In vain have we attempted to make them listen to the voice of justice. In vain have we tried by eloquence and persuasion to soften their hearts. In vain have we sacrificed our dearest affections, quitted the roof of our fathers, our friends, our——”
He was unable to finish; his heart, swelled more and more by the enumeration of these calamities, ended by stifling his voice; and, bowing his head upon the table, he burst into tears.
At that moment Kasper Müller, having shut up the brewery, for it was eleven o’clock, entered the room with a bottle of old wolxheim in each hand. He was struck by the sight of the Doctor’s distress.
“Good heavens!” he said, stopping at the threshold, “what has happened? Here I was coming to clink glasses with an old friend of my father, and I find everybody down in the mouth!”
Coucou Peter gave up his seat to him, and told him the state of affairs.
“Is that all?” cried Kasper Müller. “Have you reached your age, my dear monsieur, without having learned what men are? Why, if I were to weep at all the rascals to whom I have rendered services, and who have repaid me with ingratitude, it would take me six months to do it! Come, come, cheer up! What the deuce! You are in the midst of good and trustworthy friends. Come, drink a cup of this old wolxheim—it will raise your spirits.”
Speaking in this manner, he filled the glasses, and drank the illustrious philosopher’s health. But Frantz Mathéus was too deeply affected to be so quickly consoled; in spite of the excellence of the wolxheim, in spite of the kind speeches of his host, and of Coucou Peter’s encouragements, his soul remained oppressed by an undefined sadness. It was not until later, when Kasper Müller led the conversation on to the subject of the good old times, that he appeared to recover himself. With what delight the excellent old man retraced the physiognomies of the past, the simplicity of manners, the affectionate cordiality of the old inhabitants of Strasbourg, the simple and patriarchal family life! It became evident that all his affections, his whole soul, his whole heart, took refuge in that far-distant past.
Coucou Peter, with his elbow resting on the table, gravely smoked his pipe; Kasper Müller smiled at the good man’s recitals; and Charlotte, seated behind the stove, fell asleep in spite of herself—her head bowing slowly, slowly, and then, at intervals, recovering itself with a jerk.
It was nearly one o’clock when Kasper Müller took leave of his guest, and Charlotte, half asleep, conducted Coucou Peter to a neighbouring chamber, and was able to get to rest after her fatigues.
Left alone, Maître Frantz raised the curtain of his window, and for some minutes contemplated the deserted and silent streets of the city. The lamps were going out—the moon cast her pale light on the chimneys; an indescribable feeling of lonesomeness and sadness came upon his soul; he felt as if he were alone in the world! At length he went to bed, murmuring a prayer, and, having fallen asleep, the fair valley of Graufthal was brought back to him: he heard the rustling of the foliage, and the blackbird singing in the shady alleys of the pines. It was a beautiful dream!