“Except truth, my friend. Truth is always young: what Pythagoras said two thousand years ago is as true as if he had said it yesterday.”
“Yes, it’s like old violins,” replied Coucou Peter; “the more you play upon them the better they sound, until they get cracked; they can be mended, but by going on putting in new pieces, nothing of the old fiddle is left, and the music becomes poor.”
Chattering in this way, our good folks arrived at the fair. The crowd was already great: a thousand confused sounds, of whistles, fifes, and children’s trumpets, rang in the ears; the wooden stalls exhibited in the open air their hardwares, wooden swords, dolls, looking-glasses, and Nuremberg clocks; the voices of sellers calling their wares drowned one another.
Coucou Peter would have liked to have made a present to Dame Thérèse; he fumbled ceaselessly in his empty pockets, thinking by what means he could get some money. For a moment he had an idea of going back to the public-house and selling Bruno’s saddle and bridle to the first Jew who happened to pass; but Hans Aden having remained behind, another inspiration came into his head.
“Maître Frantz,” he said, “take hold of Schimel’s bridle; I’ll be back directly.”
He then hurried to Hans Aden, and said to him—
“Monsieur Mayor, I have forgotten my purse at the public-house, for my illustrious master and I have our money in Bruno’s saddle; lend me ten francs; I’ll return them to you by-and-by.”
“With pleasure,” said Hans Aden, pulling a somewhat wry face—“with pleasure;” and he gave him ten francs.
Coucou Peter, now as proud as a cock, took Dame Thérèse under his arm, and led her to the handsomest stall.
“Dame Thérèse,” he cried, “choose whatever you like. Will you have this shawl, these ribbons, this fichu?—will you have all the shop? Don’t hesitate.”