The good man was seated in the old arm-chair of his forefathers, near the small casement, his eyes wandering over the silent little town stretched at the foot of the misty mountains.
Peasants were mowing grass on the skirt of the forest; women, old Martha herself amongst them, armed with rakes, were turning the hay and singing old country airs.
The Zinsel murmured softly in its pebbly bed; a low hum filled the air; long files of ducks were taking their way up the stream, and every now and then raised their nasal cry; fowls were sleeping under the shadow of walls, on the shafts of carts and implements of labour; chubby children were romping and amusing themselves on the thresholds of cottages; and watchdogs, their muzzles between their paws, gave themselves up to the overpowering heat of the day.
This calm scene insensibly touched the heart of Mathéus; silent tears stole down his venerable cheeks; he took his already grey head between his hands, and, with his elbows on the window-ledge, wept like a child.
A crowd of tender recollections rose to his mind. That rustic dwelling, the abode of his father—this little garden, the trees of which he had cultivated, every plant in which he had sown—this old oak furniture, embrowned by time—all reminded him of his peaceful happiness, his habits, his friends, his infancy; and it almost seemed as if each of those inanimate objects appealed to him in touching accents not to desert them—reproached him for his ingratitude, and commiserated him beforehand on his loneliness in the world. And the heart of Frantz Mathéus echoed all these voices, and at every recollection fresh tears streamed more abundantly from his eyes.
Then, when he thought of the poor little town of which he was in some sort the only providence; when, through his tears, he looked at each of the little doors at which he had so often stopped to speak words of consolation, to distribute help, and to give ease to human sufferings; when he remembered all the hands that had pressed his, all the looks of affection and love that had blessed him—then he felt the weight of his resolution almost more than he could bear, and dared not think of the moment of his departure.
“What will Christian Schmidt say,” he thought, “whose wife I cured of a cruel malady, and who does not know how sufficiently to show his gratitude to me? What will Jacob Zimmer say, whom I saved from ruin, when he had not a farthing left to rebuild his barn? What will old Martha say, who has taken care of me with a mother’s tenderness, who brought me my coffee and cream every morning, who mended my breeches and stockings, and who would never go to bed till she had covered me up and pulled my cotton nightcap down to my ears? Poor Martha!—poor, poor, good old Martha! Only yesterday she was knitting me warm under-stockings, and putting away the dozen new shirts she had spun for me with her own hands! And what will Georges Brenner say, on hearing that his wood will be burnt by somebody else? He’ll be very angry; he’s a man of the canine race, who will not listen to reason, and will not let me go.”
Such were the reflections of Frantz Mathéus; and if his resolution had not been firm, indestructible, so many obstacles would have overthrown his courage.
But as the sun went down towards the Falberg, and the coolness of night spread itself over the bottom of the valley, he felt calmness and serenity revive within his soul; his eyes rose lovingly towards heaven, the last rays of twilight illuminating his inspired brow; he might have been thought to be praying silently. Frantz Mathéus was thinking of the incalculable consequences of his system for the happiness of future men, and nothing but Martha’s arrival could interrupt the flow of his sublime meditations.
He heard his old servant go into the kitchen, put away her rake behind the door, and begin to take down plates and dishes preparatory to supper.