The nearer Frantz Mathéus approached the gipsies, the more he was struck by their joyous and truly philosophical appearance. It was easy to be seen that they cared little for the opinion of the world, and that they drew all their satisfaction from themselves. Some had clothes too large, others clothes much too small; there were many more rents than whole pieces in their breeches, but that did not prevent them extending their legs with a certain nobility of action, or of looking you in the face as if they had been covered with magnificent embroideries. Almost all the women had children upon their backs in a kind of bag, which they carried slung over their shoulders. They went quietly about their business; some put wood on the fire, others lit their pipes with a hot coal; others, again, emptied their pockets, filled with crusts of bread, carrots, and turnips, into the cauldron. It was exquisitely picturesque to see this halt in the midst of the woods. The blue smoke rolled in masses through the valley, and in the distance the frogs, enjoying themselves amid the duckweed, were commencing their melancholy concert.
“Eat and drink, worthy people!” cried Mathéus, taking off his broad-brimmed felt and saluting them; “all the fruits of the earth are made for man. Ah! how I love to see Heaven’s creatures prosper and spread before the face of the Great Demiourgos! How I love to see them grow in strength, in wisdom, and in beauty!”
The gipsies looked suspiciously at the illustrious philosopher; but hardly had they set eyes on Coucou Peter than several of them jumped up, crying—
“Coucou Peter!—eh! It’s Coucou Peter come to have some of our soup!”
“That’s just what I’ve come for,” said the merry fiddler, shaking hands all round. “Good evening, Wolf; good evening, Pfifer-Karl! Hallo! Is that you, Daniel? How are you? And you, my little Nightingale, how long have you had this chick? My eyes! how everything increases and multiplies! Let’s see if he’s the right kind: black eyes, curly hair. Very good! all as it should be, and nobody can say a word in objection, Nightingale. Gipsies with blue eyes always strike me as deucedly suspicious; they are like warren rabbits that taste of cabbage-leaf.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” cried the gipsies, pressing about him; “Coucou Peter has always his joke!”
While this little scene was passing, Mathéus tied Bruno to one of the neighbouring trees; when he turned round Coucou Peter was bending over the cauldron.
“There’s no meat in the soup to-day,” he said, shaking his head.
“No,” replied the Nightingale; “we are fasting in honour of Saint Florent.”
“Oh!” said Coucou Peter; “a little patience—a little patience; all the troop are not together yet.”