To see Frantz Mathéus and his disciple descending the narrow path of the
Steinbach, through the tall firs, no one would ever have thought that
those two extraordinary men were on their way to conquer the world. It
is true that the illustrious philosopher, gravely bestriding Bruno, with
head erect and pendent legs, had something majestic in his appearance;
but Coucou Peter did not in the least look like a real prophet. His
jovial countenance, fat stomach, and his cock’s feather, gave him rather
the aspect of a jolly drinking companion, who cultivated deplorable
prejudices in favour of good cheer, and thought not at all of the
disastrous consequences of his physical appetites.
This remark did not inspire Mathéus with any very serious reflections,
but he proposed to himself, by putting his follower under a
psychologico-anthropo-zoological regime, by inducing moderation, and, in
short, by penetrating him with the leading principles of his doctrine, to
bring him into a more desirable physical condition.
Coucou Peter looked at the matter from quite another point of view.
“Won’t people be surprised to see me a prophet!” he said to himself. “Ha!
ha! ha! the droll dog is always up to something! What the devil is he up
to now, preaching about this transformation of bodies and peregrination
of souls? What’s the meaning of it? The _Strasbourg Almanack_, next year,
will take notice of it! They’ll draw me on the first page with my violin,
and underneath, in large letters, that every one will be able to read,
‘Coucou Peter, son of Yokel Peter, of Lutzelstein, who set out to convert
the universe.’ Ha! ha! ha!—you’ll make a good thing out of it, my jolly
prophet! Eat enough for four, drink enough for six, and preach temperance
to everybody else! And, who knows?—when you grow old you may become
chief rabbi of the peregrination of souls, sleep in a feather-bed, let
your beard grow, and clap spectacles on your nose! You cunning rascal, I
should never have thought of your laying hold of so good a place!”
In spite of himself, however, some few doubts still presented themselves
to his mind; these pleasant hopes appeared to him hazardous; he foresaw
impediments, and conceived vague apprehensions.
“I say, Maître Frantz,” he said, quickening his pace, “my tongue has been
itching to speak for the last quarter of an hour; I want very much to ask
you something.”
“Speak out, my good fellow,” replied the Doctor; “don’t stand on
ceremony. Do you already feel your noble resolutions shaken by doubt?”
“Exactly—and that bothers me. Are you quite sure about your peregrination
of souls, Maître Frantz? For, to tell you the truth, I’ve no recollection
of having lived before coming into the world.”
“Am I quite sure!” cried Mathéus. “Do you imagine that I would deceive
the world, cast desolation into the midst of families, agitation into
cities, disorder into consciences?”
“I don’t say that, Doctor; on the contrary, I’m altogether for the
doctrine. But, mind you, there are many others who won’t believe in it,
and who will say, ‘What the devil does he mean by bothering us with stuff
about his souls that go back into the bodies of animals?—does he take us
for fools? Souls that travel about!—souls that go up and down the ladder
of being!—souls on four feet, and souls that sprout with leaves! Ha! ha!
ha! the man is mad! he’s mad!’ I don’t say that, Maître Frantz; it’s
other people, you understand? _I_ believe everything; but let’s see how
you will answer the others.”
“What shall I reply to them?” cried Mathéus, pale with indignation.
“That’s it; what will you reply to these unbelievers—these
good-for-nothings?”
The illustrious philosopher had stopped in the middle of the path; he
raised himself in his stirrups and cried, in a ringing voice—
“Miserable sophists! disciples of error and false doctrines! your
captious quibbles, your scholastic subtleties, will avail you nothing
against me! In vain would you attempt to obscure the planet which shines
in the skyey vault—that planet which gives you light and warmth, and to
nature its fecundity! In spite of your blasphemies, in spite of your
ingratitude, it ceases not to shed its bounties! What need have I to see
the soul that inspires me with the noblest of thoughts? Is it not ever
present in my being—is it not myself? Cut off these arms, these legs;
will Frantz Mathéus by that means be diminished, from an intellectual
and moral point of view? No; the body is but the outer case—the soul is
eternal! Ah! Coucou Peter, place your hand upon your heart, see before
you that immense vault, the image of grandeur and harmony, and then
dare to deny the Being of beings, the First Cause of this magnificent
creation!”
When Mathéus had improvised this discourse, Coucou Peter looked at him
with one eye cunningly closed, and said—
“Very good—very good; you’ve only to talk to peasants in that fashion,
and all will be right.”
“You believe, then, in the peregrination of souls?”
“Yes, yes! We shall swamp all the preachers in the country; there’s
not one of them able to speak so long as you without taking breath;
others have to blow their noses or to cough now and then to pick up the
thread of their discourse; but you—right on you go! It’s magnificent!
magnificent!”
By this time they had arrived at the crossing of the Three Springs, and
Doctor Mathéus stopped—
“Here are three paths,” he said. “Providence, which ceaselessly watches
over the fate of great men, will point out to us the one we ought to
follow, and will inspire us with a resolution, the consequences of which,
for the progress of enlightenment and civilisation, are incalculable.”
“You’re not wrong, illustrious Doctor Frantz,” said Coucou Peter;
“Providence has just whispered in my ear that to-day is Saint
Boniface’s day—the day when Mother Windling, the widow of Windling, the
public-house-keeper of Oberbronn, every year kills a fat pig; we shall
arrive in the nick of time for black-pudding and foaming beer.”
“But we shall not be able to commence our preaching!” cried Mathéus,
scandalised at the sensual tendencies of his disciple.
“On the contrary, all will go well together. Mother Windling’s
public-house will be full of company, and we’ll begin to preach at once.”
“You think there will be a considerable number of people there?”
“Not a doubt of it; all the village will be there to eat grills.”
“Well, then, let us go to Oberbronn.”
They went on, and towards five o’clock in the afternoon the illustrious
philosopher and his disciple turned majestically into the only street of
Oberbronn.
The animation of the village delighted Mathéus; for above everything
the good man loved country life. The perfume of grass and flowers that
filled the air at the haymaking season; the big waggons standing loaded
up to the garret-windows of the houses, while the oxen, resting from
their work with legs outstretched to get at bundles of hay hanging on the
shining points of prongs of pitchforks; the mowers reclining in the shade
to refresh themselves; the regular tic-tac of the threshers; the clouds
of dust escaping from the ventholes; the shouts of laughter of young
girls romping in the barn; the honest faces of old men with white and
bony heads stooping at the windows, cotton caps upon their bald pates;
children escaping out of sight in the interior of cottages, where hanks
of flax hang about large cast-iron stoves, and old women sing infants to
sleep; dogs wandering about and barking at the passers; the chirping of
the sparrows, disposing themselves on the roofs, or audaciously swooping
down upon the sheaves in the shed—all this was life and happiness to
Doctor Frantz. For a moment he thought of going back to Graufthal. Even
Bruno raised his head, and pleasant cries greeted Coucou Peter all along
the road.
“Ha!—here’s Coucou Peter come to eat black-pudding! Now we shall have
some fun! Good day, Coucou Peter!”
“Good day, Karl! Good day, Heinrich! Good day, Christian—good day, good
day!”
He shook hands right and left; but all eyes were turned towards Mathéus,
whose grave air, good cloth clothes, and big horse, shining with fat,
inspired the deepest respect.
“It’s a curé! It’s a minister! It’s a tooth-drawer!” they said amongst
themselves.
Some of them questioned Coucou Peter in whispers, but he had not time to
answer their inquiries, and hastened after the Doctor.
They at last reached the turn of the street, and Frantz Mathéus
immediately conceived the happiest auguries on discovering the Widow
Windling’s public-house. A young peasant-girl was neatly whitewashing
the sides of a wooden balcony. Between two doors was to be seen a superb
porker hanging upon a wooden frame, and laid open from the neck to the
tail; it was white, it was red, it was washed, shaved, and cleansed; in
fine, it was delightful to see. A big shepherd’s dog, with long grey
hair, was lapping up a few drops of blood from the pavement. The windows
were of antique form. Poplars rustled in the air. The immense boarded
roof overspread the wood-store, press-house, and yard, in which a troop
of pretty fowls were clucking and pecking. On the perch of a dovecot
were a pair of magnificent blue pigeons, cooing and swelling out their
chests. Everything, indeed, gave to Mother Windling’s house a truly
hospitable physiognomy.
“Hallo! hallo! hallo! You, there! Hans! Karl! Ludwig!—will you come
out, you idlers?” cried the fiddler as he approached. “What! aren’t you
ashamed of yourselves to leave the learned Doctor Mathéus at the door?”
The house was full of customers, and it might have been supposed that
a visiting controller, a garde général, or even an under-prefect, had
arrived, so loudly did he raise his voice, and such airs of importance
did he give himself.
Nickel the serving-man appeared at the outer gate in a state of alarm,
crying, “Good gracious! what’s all this noise about?”
“What’s it about, you unfortunate! Don’t you see the illustrious Doctor
Mathéus, the inventor of the peregrination of souls, waiting for you to
hold his stirrup? Make haste!—lead his horse to the stable; but, I warn
you, I shall have an eye on the manger, and if there is but a single atom
of straw amongst the oats, you shall answer to me for it on your head!”
Mathéus then alighted, and the domestic hastened to obey the orders given
him.
The illustrious Doctor did not know that to enter the principal room
it was necessary to pass through the kitchen; he was thus agreeably
surprised by the spectacle offered to his view. They were in the midst
of the preparations for the black-puddings; the fire burned brightly on
the hearth; the dishes on the dresser-shelves shone like suns; little
Michel stirred the contents of the pot with marvellous regularity; Dame
Catherina Windling, her sleeves turned up to her elbows, stood before
the tub, majestically holding the large ladle filled with milk, blood,
onions, and chopped marjoram. She poured slowly, while fat Soffayel,
her servant, held open the skin, so that the agreeable mixture might
conveniently fill it.
Coucou Peter remained like one petrified before this delicious picture;
he opened his eyes, dilated his nostrils, and inhaled the perfume of the
saucepans. At last, in expressive tones, he cried—
“Good heavens! what a jollification we’re going to have here! what a
feast!”
Dame Catherina turned her head and joyously exclaimed—
“Ah! Coucou Peter! I expected you! You never forget to come in time for
the puddings.”
“Forget! No, no, Dame Catherina, I’m incapable of such ingratitude.
They’ve done me too much good for me ever to forget them.”
Then, advancing with a grave air, he took from her hand the large ladle,
plunged it into the tub, and for some seconds examined the mixture with a
truly psychological attention.
Dame Catherina crossed her red arms, and appeared to await his judgment;
at the end of a minute he raised his head, and said—
“With all due respect to you, Dame Catherina, a little more milk is
wanted here; the milk should never be stinted—it gives the delicacy; it
is, as one may say, the soul of the pudding.”
“That’s just what I’ve been saying,” cried Mother Windling; “didn’t I say
to you, Soffayel, that a little more milk would do no harm?”
“Yes, Dame Catherina, you said that.”
“Well, now I’m altogether sure of it. Run and fetch the milk-jug. How
many ladlesful do you think, Coucou Peter?”
The fiddler again examined the mixture, and replied—
“Three ladlesful, Dame Catherina; three full ladles! Indeed, in your
place, I should put in four.”
“We’ll put in four,” said the good woman. “It’ll make sure.”
At that moment she perceived Mathéus, an unmoved spectator of the
gastronomic council.
“Ah! good heavens! I did not see this gentleman! Is this gentleman with
you, Coucou Peter?”
“It’s a friend of mine,” said the fiddler; “the learned Doctor Mathéus,
of Graufthal—an intimate friend of mine! We are travelling for our own
pleasure and to spread the lights of civilisation.”
“Ah, Doctor, pray forgive me!” said Mother Windling; “we are up to the
eyes in puddings! Come in, and pray excuse us.”
The illustrious philosopher made several low bows, as if to say, “Don’t
think of apologising;” but he was thinking all the time, “This woman
belongs to the order _Gallinæ_,[1] a prolific race, naturally voluptuous
and fond of good living;” as her lively eyes, fat and rosy cheeks, and
her slightly upturned though large nose, sufficiently proved.
[1] This order includes domestic poultry.
This was what the Doctor thought, and certainly he was not wrong; for
Mother Windling had led a free-and-easy life in her day; stories were
told of her—stories—in fact, extraordinary things; and, in spite of her
forty years, she had still very pleasant eyes.
Mathéus entered the principal room, and seating himself at the end of
the deal table, gave himself up to judicious reflections, while Coucou
Peter rinsed out the glasses, and ordered Soffayel to fetch a bottle of
wolxheim to refresh the illustrious Doctor.
While the servant was gone to the cellar, Dame Catherina went up to the
fiddler, and, laying her hand on his shoulder, said to him in a whisper—
“Coucou Peter, this gentleman is your friend?”
“My intimate friend, Dame Catherina.”
“A handsome man,” she said, looking him full in the face.
“Aha!” said Coucou Peter, looking at her in the same way and with a
strange smile; “do you think so, Dame Catherina?”
“Yes, I think him quite a gentleman.”
“Ha! ha!” said Coucou Peter, “I should rather think so; a man with land
of his own, a savant, a first-rate physician.”
“A physician, a man with an estate,” repeated Dame Catherina. “You
haven’t told me all, Peter, I can see by your face. What has brought him
here?”
“Ha! how sly you are, Dame Catherina!” cried Coucou Peter with a wink;
“you see things any distance off! If I dare say all—but there are
things——”
He went on wiping the glasses dry.
“Tell me, Dame Catherina, does the miller Tapihans still come to see you?”
“Tapihans!” cried Mother Windling; “don’t speak of him to me! I laugh at
him; he wants to marry my house, my garden, my five-and-twenty acres of
meadow-land, the shabby fellow!”
“Take my word for it, he’s not at all the sort of man you want,” replied
the fiddler; “the sort of man to suit you is——”
Fat Soffayel came up the cellar-stairs at the moment, and Dame Catherina
appeared beaming.
“That’s right—that’s right,” she said, taking the bottle; “I’ll go and
wait upon the gentleman myself. Go, Soffayel, and put four good ladlesful
of milk into the tub. Look and see whether I am tidy, Coucou Peter—is my
hair out of order?”
“You are as fresh as a rose, Dame Catherina.”
“Do I really look so?”
“Yes; and you smell like a dish of strawberries.”
“Go along with your nonsense!” she cried.
Then Mother Windling carefully wiped her arms on the towel that hung
behind the door, took the bottle, and tripped into the principal room
like a young girl.
Frantz Mathéus was seated by an open window, watching the labours of old
Baumgarten’s bees, whose hive was just in front of it; broad streaks
of sunlight pierced the flowering rose-trees, and the illustrious
philosopher, plunged in a soft reverie, listened to the vague hum raised
by the insects at the close of day.
At this moment Mother Windling entered; behind her came Coucou Peter,
gaily, with three glasses in his hand.
“Make yourself comfortable, Dr. Mathéus,” he cried; “you are tired, the
day is hot; give me your overcoat, and let me hang it up on this peg.”
“Yes, yes,” said the good woman; “pray make yourself quite at home.
Coucou Peter has told me your name, and Doctor Mathéus is well known
in this part of the country—it’s a great honour to receive you in our
house.”
Mathéus, moved by a reception so flattering, raised his eyes blushingly,
and replied—
“You are very good, my dear madam; I regret not having brought with me a
copy of the _Anthropo-Zoology_, to do homage to you with it, and to show
my gratitude.”
“Oh, we love men of intellect!” cried Mother Windling; “_I_ love men of
mark!”
As she spoke she looked at him with so tender an air that the good man
felt quite embarrassed.
“It’s not a Tapihans, a man of no means, a miller,” she continued, “that
gives me so much pleasure to serve. But only to hear the scandalous
tongues of the village! A report has been spread that we are going to be
married, because he comes here every evening to take his glass. Heaven
preserve me from wishing for such a mere breath of a man! It’s quite
enough to have been left a widow once.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Mathéus, “I have no doubt of it! Be sure
that these reports have no influence on me; it would be contrary to my
philosophical principles.”
The fiddler then filled the glasses, crying—
“Come, Dame Catherina, you must clink glasses with the Doctor. Your
health, Doctor Frantz!”
Mother Windling did not disdain the wolxheim; she drank the health of
Doctor Mathéus like a veritable hussar. Then, without ceremony, she
relieved him of his greatcoat, and, with his wide-brimmed hat, hung it
upon one of the pegs on the wall.
“I must have you quite comfortable, and I see you are not at your ease.
I stand on no ceremony. Come, Coucou Peter, another glass, and then I’ll
go back to the kitchen to see about your supper. By-the-bye, Doctor,
you must tell me what you like best—something roasted, a _fricassé_ of
chicken?”
“I assure you, madam,” replied Mathéus, “I have no preference.”
“No, no, no; that won’t do. There must surely be something you like.”
Coucou Peter gave her a wink as much as to assure her that he knew the
Doctor’s favourite dish.
“Very well,” cried the good woman, “we’ll contrive something.”
After that she emptied her glass at a draught, smiled at Doctor Mathéus,
and went out of the room, promising soon to return. Coucou Peter followed
her for the purpose of getting her to prepare a dish of küchlen, of which
he was very fond himself, and with which he supposed the illustrious
philosopher must also be pleased. Frantz Mathéus, in delicious calm,
remained by the open window. He heard Mother Windling’s voice giving
orders, the bustle of the kitchen, the going and coming; he attributed
this attention to the reputation which his magnificent work had already
attained in the world, and congratulated himself on the generous
resolution he had taken of enlightening the universe.