“Ah!” cried Coucou Peter, laughing, “it seems to me that I must once have been one of those good monks you have just been speaking about. I must try and find out, the first time I go by Geroldsek.”
“How do you mean to do that?”
“I shall go up to the castle, and if ever I have been one of those good monks, I shall find out the road to the cellar at once.”
While deploring the sensual tendencies of his disciple, Mathéus inwardly laughed at his gay humour. “One cannot be perfect,” he said to himself. “This poor Coucou Peter thinks only of satisfying his physical appetites; but he is so good a fellow that the Great Demiourgos will not be offended with him; he will even laugh, I think, at the idea of the monk and his proof of the cellar of Geroldsek!” And the illustrious philosopher shook his head, as much as to say, “He’ll never change! He’ll never change!”
Chatting in this manner, they made their way quietly along by the Zorn. For more than an hour they had kept to the other side of the road, so as to be within the shade of the trees, for the sun was high, and the heat overpowering. As far as the eye could reach nothing was to be seen on the immense plain of Alsace but waving fields of rye, wheat, and oats; the hot air was laden with the scent of long grass. But the eye turned involuntarily towards the river, under the shadow of the old willows dipping their long branches in the water, and the thought arose, of what delight it would be to bathe in the fresh and limpid waves!
Towards noon, Frantz Mathéus and his disciple halted near a spring surrounded with alders, at a little distance off the road. They unsaddled Bruno. Coucou Peter put his flask of wolxheim to cool in the spring; he then produced the provisions from his haversack, and lay down beside his master, between two ridges of oats, which completely sheltered them from the heat of the day.
It is a delicious sensation, after the fatigue and dust of the road, to rest in the shade, to hear the gush of water through the grass, to watch the thousands of insects passing above one’s head in joyous caravans, and to feel the great golden heads of the corn rustling about one.
Bruno browsed along the hedge; Coucou Peter raised himself upon his elbow with indescribable satisfaction, clicked his tongue, and now and then presented the flask to Mathéus; but it was only for form’s sake, for the illustrious philosopher preferred spring-water to the best wine, especially during such heat. At last the gay fiddler finished his meal, closed his pocket-knife, and cried with a satisfied air—
“All goes well, Maître Frantz; it is clear the Great Demiourgos protects us—clear as day! We’re far from Saverne; and if that beggar of a procureur lays hold of us now, I’ll consent to be hanged at once. Let us now take a last pull at the flask, and get on our way; for if we arrive too late, the gates of the city will be closed.”
Saying that, he replaced his haversack, presented the bridle to Mathéus, and the illustrious philosopher having bestridden Bruno, they went forward, full of courage and confidence. The great heat was passed, the shadow of the neighbouring hills began to stretch across the road, and the Rhine breeze to refresh the air.