CHAPTER XXIII.
Frantz Mathéus followed the directions of Coucou Peter, stopping at the different inns he had named on his route, and paying his way, as became a man who was no longer travelling in the interests of civilisation. He went by Wasselonne, Marmoutier, Saverne; and the next day reached the plain of Falberg, which slopes towards Graufthal.
It was at the break of day that Maître Frantz descended the mountain; the red cock of Christina Bauner was raising his morning cry, and the good man, at this well-known sound, wept with joy. Bruno went forward at a walking pace and neighed gently, as much as to say—
“Monsieur, there’s your village; don’t you recognise these little paths, these tall furze-bushes, these great trees? And, down yonder, those thatched roofs, wet with the mist of the valley? It’s your village! Ah, monsieur! how happy I am to see it again!”
And the good Doctor sobbed; he had dropped the bridle on his horse’s neck and covered his face with his two hands, unable to restrain his tears. Then he moved them and gazed silently. The grey morning light, the white vapours, the moss-covered rocks, the shrubs, the odour of plants, the breeze—all spoke to his soul, and the nearer he approached the more he admired this country. Everything appeared beautiful to him, as if he had seen it for the first time—friendly, as if he had passed a thousand existences with it.
“Dear Heaven,” he said, “how good you are, to allow me to see my country again—my beloved country! I did not know—in truth, I did not know—how much I loved this country; these trees, these cottages, the pretty Zinsel murmuring as it goes, the tall waving pines—I have never known till now—no, I have never known till now—how necessary all these are to my life!”
The narrow path widened, turned and returned, as if to show him all the beauty of the landscape, and conduct him gently to his dwelling-place. At the end of an hour he came into the sandy high road near the wooden bridge at the beginning of the village. Bruno’s hoofs sounded on the bridge, and the excellent beast neighed in a louder tone.
Graufthal was still sleeping; only the red cock of Christina Bauner redoubled his crowing. Mathéus looked at the little windows, the wide hanging roofs, the skylights stuffed with wisps of straw, the gratings of the cellars. What an agreeable freshness came from the river! New life already circulated in the good man’s veins. At last, he was before his own door; he alighted, cast a glance through the palings of his little garden, and saw the dew pearling the magnificent heads of his cabbages. How fresh, calm, and silent was everything!
He tapped on the window-shutter—waited. Bruno neighed. What would be the result? He listened; somebody was crossing the room—the shutter-bar was raised—the heart of Maître Frantz galloped! The shutter was pushed open—and Martha—good old Martha—in her nightcap, leaned out.
“Ah, good heavens! It’s the Doctor! Ah!—is it possible?”
And quickly—very quickly—the good woman hastened to open the door.
Mathéus, seated on the bench by the door of his cottage, wept like the Prodigal Son.
THE END.
Printed by Jas. Wade, 18, Tavistock-street, Covent-garden, W.C.