They at last reached the turn of the street, and Frantz Mathéus immediately conceived the happiest auguries on discovering the Widow Windling’s public-house. A young peasant-girl was neatly whitewashing the sides of a wooden balcony. Between two doors was to be seen a superb porker hanging upon a wooden frame, and laid open from the neck to the tail; it was white, it was red, it was washed, shaved, and cleansed; in fine, it was delightful to see. A big shepherd’s dog, with long grey hair, was lapping up a few drops of blood from the pavement. The windows were of antique form. Poplars rustled in the air. The immense boarded roof overspread the wood-store, press-house, and yard, in which a troop of pretty fowls were clucking and pecking. On the perch of a dovecot were a pair of magnificent blue pigeons, cooing and swelling out their chests. Everything, indeed, gave to Mother Windling’s house a truly hospitable physiognomy.
“Hallo! hallo! hallo! You, there! Hans! Karl! Ludwig!—will you come out, you idlers?” cried the fiddler as he approached. “What! aren’t you ashamed of yourselves to leave the learned Doctor Mathéus at the door?”
The house was full of customers, and it might have been supposed that a visiting controller, a garde général, or even an under-prefect, had arrived, so loudly did he raise his voice, and such airs of importance did he give himself.
Nickel the serving-man appeared at the outer gate in a state of alarm, crying, “Good gracious! what’s all this noise about?”
“What’s it about, you unfortunate! Don’t you see the illustrious Doctor Mathéus, the inventor of the peregrination of souls, waiting for you to hold his stirrup? Make haste!—lead his horse to the stable; but, I warn you, I shall have an eye on the manger, and if there is but a single atom of straw amongst the oats, you shall answer to me for it on your head!”
Mathéus then alighted, and the domestic hastened to obey the orders given him.
The illustrious Doctor did not know that to enter the principal room it was necessary to pass through the kitchen; he was thus agreeably surprised by the spectacle offered to his view. They were in the midst of the preparations for the black-puddings; the fire burned brightly on the hearth; the dishes on the dresser-shelves shone like suns; little Michel stirred the contents of the pot with marvellous regularity; Dame Catherina Windling, her sleeves turned up to her elbows, stood before the tub, majestically holding the large ladle filled with milk, blood, onions, and chopped marjoram. She poured slowly, while fat Soffayel, her servant, held open the skin, so that the agreeable mixture might conveniently fill it.
Coucou Peter remained like one petrified before this delicious picture; he opened his eyes, dilated his nostrils, and inhaled the perfume of the saucepans. At last, in expressive tones, he cried—
“Good heavens! what a jollification we’re going to have here! what a feast!”
Dame Catherina turned her head and joyously exclaimed—