“Let us proceed to Haslach—it is there that the Being of Beings calls us. Oh, Coucou Peter, does not your heart tell you that the Great Demiourgos, before bearing us to the scene of our triumphs, has seen fit to offer to our sight a picture of the immense variety of human races in this desert? Do you realise, my friend, the sublime majesty of our mission?”
“Yes, Maître Frantz, I understand clearly enough that we must be getting on our way; but first eat some of these cherries I’ve gathered for you, and then on we go!”
Although Mathéus did not find in these words all the enthusiasm he could have desired, he seated himself, his disciple’s hat between his knees, and ate the cherries with a very good appetite. Coucou Peter having then brought back Bruno, who was cropping the young branches at some distance, Maître Frantz mounted, his disciple took the bridle, and they passed up the sandy path leading to the Roche-Plate.
The sun was setting behind the Losser, and long jets of gold pierced the tops of the tall pines. Many times Mathéus turned to contemplate this imposing sight; but when they had penetrated the woods all became obscure, and Bruno’s hoofs resounded under the dome of the great oaks as in a temple.
About an hour afterwards, when the moon was beginning to peep under the foliage, they perceived, fifty paces below them, a group of pilgrims quietly making their way towards the fair. Coucou Peter at the first glance recognised Hans Aden, Mayor of Dabo, his donkey Schimel, and his little wife Thérèse seated in one of the panniers, but he was altogether surprised to see a chubby child carefully wrapped up and tied in the ass’s other pannier, for Hans Aden had no child that he knew of. They were going along like veritable patriarchs; little Thérèse, with her silk handkerchief tied round her pretty face, looked on her child with inexpressible tenderness; the donkey walked with sure feet along the edge of the slope, cocking his long ears at the least sound, and then, with a melancholy air, tall Hans Aden, dressed in his long overcoat, the tails of which beat against his calves, his three-cornered hat on the back of his head, and his hands in his back pockets, walked slowly, shouting from time to time—
“Hey! Schimel—hey!”
At this sight, and without waiting for Mathéus, Coucou Peter scurried down the path, crying—
“How d’ye do, Maître Hans Aden?—how d’ye do?—where the deuce are you going so late?”
Hans Aden turned round slowly, and his little wife raised her eyes to see who it could be who was addressing them in that fashion.
“Ah! it’s you, is it, Coucou Peter,” said Hans, holding out his hand to him; “good evening. We are making the pilgrimage.”