At the same time he looked at little Thérèse, who looked down and became as red as a cherry. She appeared shy, and took up the child to give him the breast; but before she had untied the fastenings, Coucou Peter advanced, exclaiming—
“Ah, Maître Hans Aden!—how lucky you are! Everything succeeds with you!—You are the richest herr of the mountain; you have fields and meadows, and here St. Florent sends you the handsomest child in the world! I must have a good look at the little fellow,” he said, taking off his hat to Dame Thérèse; “I’m in love with all the little ones!”
“Stand on no ceremony, Coucou Peter,” cried the mayor, proudly; “anybody may see him—there’s no affront!”
“Kiss him, Monsieur Coucou Peter,” said Dame Thérèse, in a low tone; “kiss him—isn’t he a beauty?”
“Beautiful!” cried Coucou Peter, while two big tears streamed slowly down his red cheeks—“beautiful!—what fists! what a chest! what a laughing face!”
He held the child up, and contemplated it with open eyes; one might have thought he was never going to give it back; the mother turned away her head to dry a tear.
At last the merry fiddler himself put back the little one into the pannier, carefully raising the pillow before laying him down upon it.
“Look you, Dame Thérèse,” he whispered, “children like to have their heads high—don’t forget that.”
He then buckled the strap and laughed with the pretty little mother, while tall Hans Aden stood a few paces off, cutting a hazel switch into a whistle.