“Pursued!” cried Coucou Peter, pushing back his nightcap on to the nape of his neck; “pursued—by whom?”
“By the gendarmes.”
“For what?”
“For preaching the doctrine.”
“The doctrine! Ah, the scoundrels! I see how it is: they’re afraid of losing their places; because if we were the masters, it is we who would be the rabbis.”
“That’s it! They threaten us with the galleys.”
Coucou Peter stood with wide-open eyes and mouth. At the same time a voice, from the depths of the room, cried—
“In Heaven’s name, save yourself, Peter!—fly!”
“Don’t be alarmed, Gredel—don’t be alarmed,” said the fiddler. “Poor little woman, how she loves me! We’ll be off at once. The galleys! Ah, the rascals!—Where shall we go, Maître Frantz?”
“To Strasbourg.”