The miller did not stir from his place, and watched the Doctor, who watched him, thinking: “This man cannot belong to any but the fox species—a race given to plunder and possessed of little delicacy; moreover, he is attacked by a never-dying worm; his pale complexion, sharp cheek-bones, and keen eyes are bad signs.”
After making these observations, he drank a glass of wolxheim, which appeared to him delicious.
“So you’re not married yet, Tapihans?” cried Coucou Peter, between two mouthfuls of pudding.
The little man returned no answer, but pressed his lips closer together.
“A piece more pudding, Doctor,” said the widow, with a tender look; “a little piece more.”
“You are very good, my dear madam,” replied the illustrious philosopher, visibly affected by the delicate attentions and kindness of this excellent creature.
Indeed, Dame Catherina filled his glass, turned upon him her most flattering looks, and every now and then, resting her hand upon his knee, leaned towards him and whispered in his ear—
“Ah, Doctor Frantz, how happy I am to know you!”
To which the good man responded—
“And I also, my dear madam; believe me, I feel deeply sensible of your cordial hospitality. You are truly good, and if I can contribute to your improvement it will be with the greatest pleasure.”