Every one then set to work: Hans Aden climbed the barn-ladder, and threw down some bundles of straw through the window; Mathéus unharnessed Schimel and Bruno; Dame Thérèse produced provisions from a haversack!
Coucou Peter saw to everything: he gave forage to the beasts, spread litter for them, hung up the harness, tasted the wine, and never lost sight of the donkey’s pannier in which the child was sleeping.
Very soon all was ready, and they comfortably seated themselves on trusses of straw for supper.
Similar scenes were passing in the Rue du Tonnelet Rouge; every group of pilgrims had its fire, the glare of which was reflected on the surrounding houses.
To the tumult insensibly succeeded a vast silence; all these worthy people, overcome with fatigue, chatted amongst each in low tones as in the bosom of their family. It was so with Coucou Peter, Hans Aden, Dame Thérèse, and Mathéus: it might have been imagined that they had known one another for long years, when they were seated about the fire, and the bottle passed from hand to hand; they felt quite at home.
“After you, Dame Thérèse,” said Coucou Peter. “Jolly, this small wine of Alsace!—Where was it grown, Maître Hans Aden?”
“At Eckersthal.”
“A famous place! Hand me a slice of ham.”
“Here it is, Monsieur Coucou Peter.”
“Your health, Maître Frantz!”