“Five-and-thirty years ago,” replied Mathéus, ingenuously.
“Five-and-thirty years!” cried Coucou Peter. “And do you imagine that Georges Müller is still there?”
“No doubt. I observed his sign as I passed; nothing has been changed.”
“Well, then, let us go to the Heron,” said the disciple, with a downcast air. “If there’s nothing to be gained there, there’s nothing to be lost! May the Great Demiourgos come to our assistance!”
CHAPTER XXI.
Nine o’clock was striking at the Cathedral when Frantz Mathéus and his disciple stopped in front of the Heron brewery. The great yard, shaded by lime-trees, was full of company; a troop of gipsies accompanied the tumult with their wild music. Kasper Müller, the brewer, in his shirt-sleeves, went from table to table, shaking hands and interchanging jocular greetings with the drinkers; and all these figures, grave and comic, hidden in the shade, or distinctly seen in the uncertain light, presented a truly strange spectacle.
The illustrious philosopher, however, instead of giving himself up to his habitual reflections on the affinities of races, looked on all with a dull eye. It might have been said, to see him with outstretched neck and dangling legs, that he despaired of the doctrine, and of the future of the generations to come.
“Come, Maître Frantz,” said Coucou Peter to him, “courage! Go into your friend Georges Müller’s house; he can’t fail to recognise you—then, hurrah! If we can only find a lodging for to-night, to-morrow we’ll convert the world!”
Mathéus obeyed mechanically; he alighted, buttoned his brown greatcoat, and advanced with trembling steps into the yard, casting undecided glances at all the groups, and not knowing whom to address.