“No, no,” he said, in a calmer tone; “the old woman might die, and all the expense of burying her would fall on me.”
The illustrious doctor, grieved at such a spectacle, went up to the door, and stooping towards the miller said gently to him—
“My friend, how can you refuse shelter to this unfortunate creature? Reflect that she may die for want of assistance. To what reproaches would you not subject yourself in the country around! Come, allow yourself to be moved by the prayer of this poor child.”
“Monsieur le curé,” replied the miller, taking off his cap, “if they were Christians, I wouldn’t refuse; but pagans—I can’t stand that!”
“What matters their philosophical opinions?” cried Maître Frantz. “Are we not all brothers? Have we not all the same wants, the same passions, the same origin? Believe me, my worthy man, give a truss of straw to this unhappy creature, and you will be fulfilling your duty, and the Being of Beings will recompense you for it.”
All the women sided with Mathéus, and the miller, for fear of provoking scandal, opened his barn; but he did it with so many maledictions against these vagabonds, who compelled the world to support them while they lived, and to bury them when they died, that no credit was due to him for his charitable action.
Coucou Peter noticed all this with his hands in his pockets and without speaking a word; but when Mathéus bowed to the good women and rode on his way, he suddenly asked—
“Maître Frantz, do you believe that old woman is very ill?”
“I fear so,” answered the good man, shaking his head. “I fear she will not live through the night.”