“Yours, my children! What a beautiful night!—how mild the air is! Great Demiourgos foresaw that his children would have no place of shelter for their heads! O Great Being!” cried the good man, “Being of Beings! accept the thanks that rise from a sincere heart! It is not for ourselves alone that He is to be thanked, my dear friends; but for this innumerable crowd of creatures come from so far with the honourable purpose of paying Him their homage!”
“Maître Frantz, you are not seated comfortably; take this truss of straw.”
“This will do very well, Coucou Peter; I am quite comfortable as I am.”
Schimel’s pannier was set up against the wall, and Coucou Peter, every moment, lifted the covering to see whether the little one was sleeping soundly. Bruno and Schimel were quietly munching their allowance; and when the flickering rays of the fire fell upon the posts, the windows fringed with rugged tufts of straw, waggons, and a thousand other objects in the shade—when it lit the calm and meditative head of the illustrious Doctor, the tender face of Thérèse, or the jovial features of Coucou Peter, the whole scene resembled an old picture out of the Bible.
Towards eleven o’clock Mathéus asked permission to be allowed to go to sleep; tall Hans Aden had already stretched himself by the wall, and slept profoundly; Dame Thérèse was not yet sleepy, nor was Coucou Peter, and they continued their conversation in a low tone.
Before sinking into repose, Maître Frantz heard the voice of the crier repeating in the silence—“Eleven o’clock—past eleven!” then footsteps passing down the street, a dog barking and rattling his chain; he opened his eyes, and saw the shadow of Schimel’s ears moving on the wall like the wings of a night-moth.
The servants of the Three Roses bolted the doors and laughed in the passage; these were his last impressions.