“Nothing, dear madame, nothing,” gasped the good man; “it’s the miller, it’s——”
“Tapihans?—ah, the wretch! the wretch! He wants to separate us; he’s raised the village against us! But fly!” she cried, thrusting a large black-pudding into his pocket. “Fly! we shall see each other again; you will come some other time!”
The illustrious philosopher did not need this advice; he had already hurried across the yard, stammering—
“Yes, yes! we shall meet again in the spheres above!”
He darted into the stable by the back door, and found his disciple buckling the girths of his horse.
Coucou Peter had observed the scene from a window looking out on to the street, and foreseeing the issue of the sermonising, had come to saddle Bruno.
“Aha, Maître Frantz!” he said; “you’re just in time; I was off without you. Our peregrination of souls doesn’t appear to take in this village.”
“Let us hasten away from this place,” cried Mathéus, not knowing which way to turn.
“Yes, I think that’s the best thing to be done; these beggars of peasants are not up to our level. Get up behind me, for there’s an end of our business here.”