"Now let us hear all the scandal," he said. "What chimney smokes? Where has a hair been found in the soup?"
"Fritzchen! Fritzchen!" Brenckenberg rebuked him with his broadest smile. "You shouldn't hold up to ridicule the shepherd of your soul."
He had always called him "Fritzchen." Why, no one knew, not even he himself. The pet name had survived the decade during which their relations to each other had so altered. The "you," which was held to be officially correct, yielded to the familiar "thou" when they sat together over their wine. Sometimes Leo gave the signal, but oftenest it was the old man, whose heart overflowed in his cups, who adopted the more endearing form of address at his own peril.
Christian brought the wine with the conscience of a poisoner, and hobbled out again.
The small black eyes of the shepherd of souls sparkled with satisfaction under their fierce bushy brows; he smacked his full lips. The Lord's wrestler had doffed his armour, and wanted to be simply a man, a peace-loving, weak, lusty human being, who next Sunday would have something to repent. The bottles looked respectable enough, the wine somewhat pale, it was true, as it trickled into the dignified rummers in a watery stream, but that might be deceptive. He breathed hard through his distended nostrils, and thrust out his upper lip.
"Your health, old fellow!"
"Your health, Fritzchen!"
He tasted, started, half-choked, and coughed violently; then, with a countenance expressive of unutterable human grief and disappointment, he put down his glass.
"Nice wine!" remarked Leo, raising his forefinger to command assent.
The pastor, purple from coughing, would have liked to spit it out, but daren't.