“It’s not a Tapihans, a man of no means, a miller,” she continued, “that gives me so much pleasure to serve. But only to hear the scandalous tongues of the village! A report has been spread that we are going to be married, because he comes here every evening to take his glass. Heaven preserve me from wishing for such a mere breath of a man! It’s quite enough to have been left a widow once.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Mathéus, “I have no doubt of it! Be sure that these reports have no influence on me; it would be contrary to my philosophical principles.”
The fiddler then filled the glasses, crying—
“Come, Dame Catherina, you must clink glasses with the Doctor. Your health, Doctor Frantz!”
Mother Windling did not disdain the wolxheim; she drank the health of Doctor Mathéus like a veritable hussar. Then, without ceremony, she relieved him of his greatcoat, and, with his wide-brimmed hat, hung it upon one of the pegs on the wall.
“I must have you quite comfortable, and I see you are not at your ease. I stand on no ceremony. Come, Coucou Peter, another glass, and then I’ll go back to the kitchen to see about your supper. By-the-bye, Doctor, you must tell me what you like best—something roasted, a fricassé of chicken?”
“I assure you, madam,” replied Mathéus, “I have no preference.”
“No, no, no; that won’t do. There must surely be something you like.”
Coucou Peter gave her a wink as much as to assure her that he knew the Doctor’s favourite dish.
“Very well,” cried the good woman, “we’ll contrive something.”