‘Look!’ said Dutch Michel, ‘all these have shaken off the anxieties and cares of life; none of these hearts any longer beat anxiously and uneasily, and their former owners feel happy now they have got rid of the troublesome guest.’
‘But what do they now carry in their breasts instead?’ asked Peter, whose head was nearly swimming at what he beheld.
‘This,’ replied he, taking out of a small drawer, and presenting to him—a heart of stone.
‘Indeed!’ said Peter, who could not prevent a cold shuddering coming over him. ‘A heart of marble? But, tell me, Mr. Michel, such a heart must be very cold in one’s breast.’
‘True, but very agreeably cool. Why should a heart be warm? For in winter its warmth is of little use, and good strong Kirschwasser does more than a warm heart, and in summer when all is hot and sultry, you can’t think how cooling such a heart is. And, as before said, such a heart feels neither anxiety nor terror, neither foolish compassion nor other grief.’
‘And that is all you can offer me?’ asked Peter indignantly; ‘I looked for money and you are going to give me a stone.’
‘Well! an hundred thousand florins, methinks, would suffice you for the present. If you employ it properly, you may soon make it a million.’
‘An hundred thousand!’ exclaimed the poor coal-burner, joyfully. ‘Well, don’t beat so vehemently in my bosom, we shall soon have done with one another. Agreed, Michel, give me the stone and the money, and the alarum you may take out of its case.’
‘I always thought you were a reasonable fellow,’ replied Michel, with a friendly smile; ‘come, let us drink another glass, and then I will pay you the money.’
They went back to the room and sat down again to the wine, drinking one glass after another till Peter fell into a profound sleep.