“True,” said Arnold in a tone of somewhat contemptuous irony. “I had forgotten the horses! It is clear that God should have thought principally of them when he created the world.”
“I don’t know as to God,” answered Moser quietly, “but the engineers certainly made a mistake in forgetting them when they made the roads. The horse is the laborer’s best friend, monsieur—without disrespect to the oxen, which have their value too.”
Arnold looked at the peasant. “So you see in your surroundings only the advantages you can derive from them?” he asked gravely. “The forest, the mountains, the clouds, all say nothing to you? You have never paused before the setting sun or at the sight of the woods lighted by the stars?”
“I?” cried the farmer. “Do you take me for a maker of almanacs? What should I get out of your starlight and the setting sun? The main thing is to earn enough for three meals a day and to keep one’s stomach warm. Would monsieur like a drink of cognac? It comes from the other side of the Rhine.”
He held out a little wicker-covered bottle to Arnold, who refused by a gesture. The positive coarseness of the peasant had rekindled his regret and his contempt. Were they really men such as he was, these unfortunates, doomed to unceasing labor, who lived in the bosom of nature without heeding it and whose souls never rose above the most material sensations? Was there one point of resemblance which could attest their original brotherhood to such as he? Arnold doubted this more and more each moment.
These thoughts had the effect of communicating to his manner a sort of contemptuous indifference toward his conductor, to whom he ceased to talk. Moser showed neither surprise nor pain and set to whistling an air, interrupted from time to time by some brief word of encouragement to his horses.
Thus they arrived at the farm, where the noise of the bells announced their coming. A young boy and a woman of middle age appeared on the threshold.
“Ah, it is the father!” cried the woman, looking back into the house, where could be heard the voices of several children, who came running to the door with shouts of joy and pressed around the peasant.
“Wait a moment, youngsters,” interrupted the father in his big voice as he rummaged in the cart and brought forth a covered basket. “Let Fritz unharness.”
But the children continued to besiege the farmer, all talking at once. He bent to kiss them, one after another; then rising suddenly: