“What the deuce are you thinking of, Maître Mathéus? I never saw you looking like this before!”
“I am thinking,” replied the good man, “that human kind is unworthy to know the sublime truths of anthropo-zoology. The peoples appear to me to be struck with a deplorable—and I must say wilful—blindness; for if they are blind, it is because they choose to be so. In vain have we attempted to make them listen to the voice of justice. In vain have we tried by eloquence and persuasion to soften their hearts. In vain have we sacrificed our dearest affections, quitted the roof of our fathers, our friends, our——”
He was unable to finish; his heart, swelled more and more by the enumeration of these calamities, ended by stifling his voice; and, bowing his head upon the table, he burst into tears.
At that moment Kasper Müller, having shut up the brewery, for it was eleven o’clock, entered the room with a bottle of old wolxheim in each hand. He was struck by the sight of the Doctor’s distress.
“Good heavens!” he said, stopping at the threshold, “what has happened? Here I was coming to clink glasses with an old friend of my father, and I find everybody down in the mouth!”
Coucou Peter gave up his seat to him, and told him the state of affairs.
“Is that all?” cried Kasper Müller. “Have you reached your age, my dear monsieur, without having learned what men are? Why, if I were to weep at all the rascals to whom I have rendered services, and who have repaid me with ingratitude, it would take me six months to do it! Come, come, cheer up! What the deuce! You are in the midst of good and trustworthy friends. Come, drink a cup of this old wolxheim—it will raise your spirits.”
Speaking in this manner, he filled the glasses, and drank the illustrious philosopher’s health. But Frantz Mathéus was too deeply affected to be so quickly consoled; in spite of the excellence of the wolxheim, in spite of the kind speeches of his host, and of Coucou Peter’s encouragements, his soul remained oppressed by an undefined sadness. It was not until later, when Kasper Müller led the conversation on to the subject of the good old times, that he appeared to recover himself. With what delight the excellent old man retraced the physiognomies of the past, the simplicity of manners, the affectionate cordiality of the old inhabitants of Strasbourg, the simple and patriarchal family life! It became evident that all his affections, his whole soul, his whole heart, took refuge in that far-distant past.
Coucou Peter, with his elbow resting on the table, gravely smoked his pipe; Kasper Müller smiled at the good man’s recitals; and Charlotte, seated behind the stove, fell asleep in spite of herself—her head bowing slowly, slowly, and then, at intervals, recovering itself with a jerk.
It was nearly one o’clock when Kasper Müller took leave of his guest, and Charlotte, half asleep, conducted Coucou Peter to a neighbouring chamber, and was able to get to rest after her fatigues.