Mathéus said no more, but he withdrew his good opinion of the gipsies, and even repented having eaten any of their potatoes.
The sun had risen, and threw a steady light between the mountains; it was time to be going, and Mathéus remounted Bruno.
Coucou Peter took hold of the bridle, and ascended the road leading up the hill, in order to escape from the mists which filled the valley.
The birds were warbling their joyous morning songs. The night faded away, and the air became more fresh and penetrating; the path from Haslach again became visible amongst the bushes, and Maître Frantz, now more at his ease, congratulated his disciple on having parted company with the gipsies.
As they advanced into the forest, the sun became warmer, and penetrated beneath the foliage; and while Bruno, at a walking pace, followed the narrow moss-bordered path, Coucou Peter gathered ripe blackberries, with which the bushes were laden. His mouth was blackened with the fruit, and he whistled gaily in answer to the birds. Jays passed in flights among the underwood, and more than once the merry fiddler threw his stick at them, so near did they approach.
Until nine o’clock all went well; but when the full heat of day came, and the steep sides of the Dagsberg had to be ascended, an unconquerable melancholy fell upon the heart of Mathéus. They met not a soul; nothing but the murmur of the pines was around them. The vast pasturages of the valleys, in which were heard the distant sound of the sheep-bell, and the song of the young shepherds—now faint, now shrill—awaking the echoes: everything reminded him of Graufthal, his old Martha, his absent friends; and heavy sighs arose from his bosom. Coucou Peter himself, contrary to his habit, was thoughtful, and Bruno hung his head, with a melancholy air, as if thinking regretfully of happier times.
Many times they had to stop to take breath, and it was not until towards five o’clock in the evening that they reached the Valley of the Zorn, at the foot of the Haut-Bârr. Then the sky cleared; above them wound the road from Lorraine; long lines of vehicles, peasant men and women, with their large panniers on their backs filled with vegetables, were passing along; cracking of whips and tinkling of harness-bells made the prospect pleasant, and seemed to announce the proximity of Zabern, the little town notable for its white bread, sausages, and foaming beer. They perceived it, in fact, at the outlet of the valley, and Bruno, scenting a resting-place, broke into a vigorous gallop. On reaching the first houses Mathéus slackened his pace.
“At length,” he said, “we have come to the end of our fatigues—the destinies are about to be accomplished!”
Thereupon Maître Frantz and his disciple proudly entered the ancient Rue des Tanneurs, and, to tell the truth, an extraordinary animation exhibited itself as they made their way along. Young and old faces showed themselves at all the windows, in cornettes, in three-cornered hats, and in cotton caps; everybody was curious to see them; the habitués of the casino came out into the balcony, with billiard-cues or newspapers in their hands; children returning from school, with their satchels at their back, followed them; the geese themselves, walking about the streets and chatting amongst themselves on indifferent subjects, suddenly set up a cry of triumph, and flew right away to the Place de la Licorne.
“You see, Coucou Peter,” said the illustrious philosopher, “what a sensation our arrival produces; everywhere we are received with fresh enthusiasm! If the pastor will only lend us his temple for a day or two, we are sure of converting the whole town. The simplest course will then be to establish discussions, and invite all to make whatever objections may occur to them. Then from the height of the pulpit I will rebuke them in a voice of thunder, I will bemoan the aberrations of the age, I will strike with salutary terror the unbelievers, the sophists, and most of all the indifferents—those lepers of society, those worthless beings, who think of nothing, believe in nothing, and doubt even their own existence! Oh, impure race!—race of vipers, given up to sensual enjoyments, you shall tremble! Yes, you shall tremble at the voice of Frantz Mathéus, filled with real enthusiasm; you shall be cast down with wholesome terror, and brought upon your knees before him! But Frantz Mathéus is not cruel, and if you will only recognise the transformation of bodies and the peregrination of souls, if you will only allow faith to penetrate to the depths of your withered hearts, all shall be forgiven you!”