Schulz was out of breath, but he called gladly:
"Krafft—Krafft is coming to-morrow…." Kunz did not understand; but he recognized the voice:
"Schulz!… What! At this hour? What is it?" Schulz repeated:
"To-morrow, he is coming to-morrow morning!…'
"What?" asked Kunz, still mystified.
"Krafft!" cried Schulz.
Kunz pondered the word for a moment; then a loud exclamation showed that he had understood.
"I am coming down!" he shouted.
The window was closed. He appeared on the steps with a lamp in his hand and came down into the garden. He was a little stout old man, with a large gray head, a red beard, red hair on his face and hands. He took little steps and he was smoking a porcelain pipe. This good natured, rather sleepy little man had never worried much about anything. For all that, the news brought by Schulz excited him; he waved his short arms and his lamp and asked:
"What? Is it him? Is he really coming?"