Presently Kasper Müller perceived him wandering under the roofs like a troubled spirit; the good man’s face, stamped with sadness, interested him greatly. He came forward to meet him, and inquired what he needed.
“Monsieur,” replied Mathéus, with a low bow, “will you have the kindness to tell me where I can find Georges Müller?”
“Georges Müller? He’s been dead these fifteen years!”
“Good heavens! Is it possible to be more unfortunate than I am?” cried the good man, in a choking voice.
He bowed again, and was moving towards the gate; but the brewer, touched by the sadness of this exclamation, detained him, and taking him aside, said, kindly—
“Excuse me, monsieur; you appear to be in some pressing need. Can I not render you the service you expected of Georges Müller?”
“It is true,” replied Mathéus, his eyes filling with tears, “I am in pressing want. I came to ask a lodging for the night of Georges Müller, one of my oldest and dearest acquaintances. Though I have not seen him for five-and-thirty years—the time at which I finished my studies—I am sure his heart had not changed, and that he would have given me a welcome.”
“I have no doubt of it—I have no doubt of it,” replied the brewer; “and I, his son, will not refuse it to you, be sure of it.”
“You the son of Georges Müller!” cried Mathéus. “You must be little Kasper, then, whom I have so often rocked on my knees! Ah! my dear child, how happy I am to see you again! I should not have recognised you, with those big whiskers and that great ruddy face!”
Kasper could not help smiling at the doctor’s simplicity; but, seeing a crowd of drinkers gathering about them, he took him into the great dining-room, then empty, to ascertain more exactly the state of his affairs. Maître Frantz, without beating about the bush, informed him under what circumstances he had quitted Graufthal, and acquainted him with the innumerable vicissitudes of his anthropo-zoological peregrinations; and Kasper Müller, familiarly placing his hands on the Doctor’s shoulders, cried—