“Why not?” she cried, smiling; “many others would be glad to find a shelter in the midst of this tumult—wouldn’t they, Hans Aden?”
Coucou Peter, delighted at hearing her say this, cared nothing for what tall Hans Aden might answer; as soon as Dame Thérèse had accepted the shed, he hurried down the garden in search of dry wood.
“Thanks, Daddy Jacob!” he cried.
“Take care not to set fire to the barn,” said the landlord.
“Don’t be afraid, Daddy Jacob—don’t be afraid!”
The night was dark; in a very little time a bright and pleasant fire lighted up the beams and tiles of the outhouse.
Ah! it was not the handsome bedchamber at Oberbronn, with its two chests of drawers and good feather-bed, into which one sank up to the ears. The black beams showed from floor to floor to the summit of the roof; and on the side of the street, four oaken posts sheltered you from the wind. No St. Quirin looking-glasses were to be seen there, but stable-doors along the wall; and from the far end of the shed, pigs, raising with their snouts the planks of their sty, wished you “Good evening.”
Maître Mathéus reminded himself, with satisfaction, that other prophets before him had inhabited like places.
“Virtue,” he said, gravely, “lives under the thatched roof. Let us rejoice, my friends, that we do not dwell in palaces.”
“Very good,” said Coucou Peter; “but let us arrange things so as not to go to bed in the mud.”