When, after the first hand had been played, Maître Kitzig said to him, absently, that he must necessarily have passed through Haslach, as the road from Molsheim passed immediately behind that village, he denied it afresh—denied it emphatically; saying that he had passed at the back of Hirchland, and giving a false description of the route and of the beauties of nature, describing an immense circuit around Oberbronn, Eschenbach, and generally of all the places through which he had passed.
“You took a very long and roundabout road?” remarked the procureur; the game then went on without interruption.
From time to time Maître Kitzig made some caustic reflection as to the difficulty of mountain roads, as to the danger of preaching new doctrines, and the illustrious philosopher trembled to the marrow of his bones. Thus passed this evening, which was to have decided the eternal glory of Frantz Mathéus, of the progress of civilisation, and of the happiness of future races; it passed in the cruellest of torments. While joy was all around the good man, while the noble Baron de Pipelnaz was blooming in his pride, and all these vulgar beings were lapping themselves in the most radiant hopes: he, so good, so just, so benevolent, was thinking of nothing but of flight—of going and enriching America with the treasures of his science! “There,” he thought, “doctrines are free; no procureurs or gendarmes are to be feared; everybody may perform miracles as they like!”
Midnight struck, and a goodly number of the habitués of the casino had already retired, when the Procureur Kitzig rose, and, looking at the illustrious philosopher, said—
“Surely, my dear monsieur, you have made a mistake; you must have come into the road at the back of Haslach, and passed through the village?”
Frantz Mathéus, as if carried away by anger, declared for the third time, with an oath, that he did not know what was meant—that he had never been that way!
His emotion would certainly have betrayed him if he had not had the most honest face in the world. But how could it be supposed that this good Daddy Mathéus, Doctor of Graufthal, was that terrible reformer, that great offender, who had conceived the audacious design of shaking the universe? Such an idea could not have come into any one’s head; so Maître Kitzig contented himself with laughing at the worthy man’s singular excitement, and wishing him “Good evening.”
The pastor and Maître Frantz were the last to leave, and when they were in the street, the Doctor, feeling the full force of his weakness, burst into tears. In vain did Monsieur Schweitzer seek to console him with kind words—he could not forgive himself; and if his host had not supported him, he would not have been able to move a step, so choked was he by emotion, so much did he tremble in all his limbs.