About nine o’clock in the evening the illustrious philosopher and his new
companions made their entry into the ancient town of Haslach.
The streets were so crowded with people, waggons, and cattle, as to be
almost impassable.
The tall houses with their jagged gables overhung the tumult, throwing
the light of their little windows upon the excited crowd. All these
pilgrims from Alsace, from Lorraine, and from the mountains, congregated
about the public-houses and inns like ants; others had settled themselves
along the walls, others under sheds or in barns.
The sound of bagpipes, the dull lowing of oxen, the clatter of horses’
hoofs, the patois of the Lorrainers and Germans, made an incredible
confusion. What a subject for meditation for Mathéus!
It was then that Hans Aden and Dame Thérèse felt glad of having met
Coucou Peter; what would they have done without him in the midst of such
a turmoil?
The joyous fiddler pushed aside the crowd, crying, “By your leave!”
stopping at the most difficult points, leading Schimel by the bridle,
advising Mathéus not to lose himself, animating Bruno, knocking at the
inn doors to ask for lodging. But, in spite of all said concerning little
Thérèse, the mayor, and the illustrious philosopher, he was everywhere
answered—
“Go farther on, my good people, and may Heaven guide you!”
He never lost courage, and cried gaily—
“Forward!—Never mind, Dame Thérèse, never mind; we shall find our snug
corner all the same.—Aha, Maître Frantz! what do you say to this?
To-morrow we’ll set to preaching.—Maître Hans Aden, take care of that
cart!—Come along, Schimel!—Hey! Bruno!”
The others were almost stupefied.
Mathéus, seeing that the people of Haslach sold their hay, straw, and
everything else to the poor pilgrims worn-out with fatigue, felt his soul
oppressed with sorrow.
“Oh, hard and unbelieving hearts!” he cried to himself, “know you not
that this spirit of lucre and traffic will cause you to descend the
Ladder of Beings?”
Unfortunately nobody minded him, and several people at windows even
laughed at his simplicity.
“In Heaven’s name, Maître Frantz,” cried Coucou Peter, “don’t make any
anthropo-zoological speeches to these people, without you want to run the
risk of having to spend the night under the stars, and worse still!”
As to Dame Thérèse, she pressed the brave fiddler’s arm, to his evident
satisfaction.
In spite of his indignation, the illustrious philosopher could not help
admiring the singular industry of the inhabitants of Haslach. Here a
burly butcher, standing between two candles, sold three and even four
different kinds of meats. These different meats, all thoroughly fresh,
were a pleasure to look upon; while the pretty servant-girls, with their
little baskets on their arms, their open eyes, and slightly turned-up
noses, looked more fresh, more plump, more rosy than the steaks hanging
on the hooks in the butcher’s shop. Here a blacksmith, with bare arms
and smutty face, was working with his assistants at the back of his
forge—the hammers clattering, the bellows blowing, the sparks flying out
on the foot of the passers; and farther on, Conrad the tailor was making
haste to finish for the fair a new scarlet waistcoat for the mayor’s
assistant—his blackbird in its wicker-cage whistling a tune, with which
he drew his needle in cadence. Magnificent cakes of all sizes met the
sight in the bakers’ windows; and the apothecary, for this day, had
placed in his window two big glass bottles, one filled with red, the
other with blue water, with lamps behind them, producing a superb effect.
“How grand the world is!” Mathéus said to himself; “each day civilisation
makes fresh progress! What would you say, my good Martha, if you saw such
a sight as this? You would not be able to believe your eyes; you could
never have foreseen the triumph of your master on so vast a stage! But
truth shines everywhere with eternal brilliancy, and overcomes envy,
sophism, and vain prejudices!”
The little caravan, jostled and driven from street to street, at last
came in front of Jacob Fischer’s good old public-house, and Coucou Peter
uttered an exclamation of joyous surprise.
The lamp was swung above the door, lighting the whole of the front of
the house, from the sign of the Three Roses to the stork’s nest on the
topmost point of the gable.
“Maître Frantz,” cried Coucou Peter, “do you like cheese-tarts?”
“Why do you ask?” said the good man, surprised at such a question.
“Because Mother Jacob made kougelhofs and cheese-tarts three days
ago. It’s the only thing she thinks of; it’s what one might call her
philosophical idea when the fair-time approaches. Daddy Jacob thinks only
of bottling his wine and smoking his pipe behind the store; and when
his wife calls he lets her call, knowing that nothing will stop her;
for she is like a hen that’s going to lay—the more she is driven about
the more noise she makes. But here we are. What a lot of people!—Come,
Dame Thérèse, you may alight.—Maître Hans Aden, come and hold Schimel’s
bridle, while I go and beg Daddy Jacob to take us in.”
They were in front of the public-house, the crowd whirling around them.
They saw the drinkers go up and down the steps unsteadily; glasses
jingled, cans clashed; voices called for beer, sourcrout, sausages; the
servant-girls, whom the guests chucked under the chin as they passed,
uttered laughing little cries; Mother Jacob clattered the plates and
dishes, and Daddy Jacob turned the tap in the cellar.
Coucou Peter entered the public-house, promising soon to return. Indeed,
at the end of a few seconds, he came back with Maître Jacob himself, a
hale man with jovial face and shirt-sleeves turned up to his elbows.
“My poor fellow,” he said, “nothing would please me better than to be of
service to you. But every room is taken; I’ve nothing left but the barn
and the shed; see if either of those will suit you.”
Coucou Peter looked at little Thérèse with an air of distress, and then
at the crowded street.
“If it were only for myself, Maître Jacob, I’d accept it at once; a poor
devil of a fiddler is used to sleeping on straw. But just look at this
good little mother, at this poor child, and at this good Doctor Mathéus,
the cream of philosophers!” cried he, in a heartrending tone of voice.
“Come, Daddy Jacob—put yourself in the place of these people!”
“What can I do, Coucou Peter?” replied the publican. “With all the
goodwill in the world, I can’t empty my rooms; I can’t offer you——”
“Ah, Monsieur Coucou Peter, don’t give yourself so much trouble on our
account,” then said Dame Thérèse; “we are not so hard to please as you
think.”
“You accept the shed, Dame Thérèse?”
“Why not?” she cried, smiling; “many others would be glad to find a
shelter in the midst of this tumult—wouldn’t they, Hans Aden?”
Coucou Peter, delighted at hearing her say this, cared nothing for what
tall Hans Aden might answer; as soon as Dame Thérèse had accepted the
shed, he hurried down the garden in search of dry wood.
“Thanks, Daddy Jacob!” he cried.
“Take care not to set fire to the barn,” said the landlord.
“Don’t be afraid, Daddy Jacob—don’t be afraid!”
The night was dark; in a very little time a bright and pleasant fire
lighted up the beams and tiles of the outhouse.
Ah! it was not the handsome bedchamber at Oberbronn, with its two chests
of drawers and good feather-bed, into which one sank up to the ears. The
black beams showed from floor to floor to the summit of the roof; and on
the side of the street, four oaken posts sheltered you from the wind. No
St. Quirin looking-glasses were to be seen there, but stable-doors along
the wall; and from the far end of the shed, pigs, raising with their
snouts the planks of their sty, wished you “Good evening.”
Maître Mathéus reminded himself, with satisfaction, that other prophets
before him had inhabited like places.
“Virtue,” he said, gravely, “lives under the thatched roof. Let us
rejoice, my friends, that we do not dwell in palaces.”
“Very good,” said Coucou Peter; “but let us arrange things so as not to
go to bed in the mud.”
Every one then set to work: Hans Aden climbed the barn-ladder, and threw
down some bundles of straw through the window; Mathéus unharnessed
Schimel and Bruno; Dame Thérèse produced provisions from a haversack!
Coucou Peter saw to everything: he gave forage to the beasts, spread
litter for them, hung up the harness, tasted the wine, and never lost
sight of the donkey’s pannier in which the child was sleeping.
Very soon all was ready, and they comfortably seated themselves on
trusses of straw for supper.
Similar scenes were passing in the Rue du Tonnelet Rouge; every group
of pilgrims had its fire, the glare of which was reflected on the
surrounding houses.
To the tumult insensibly succeeded a vast silence; all these worthy
people, overcome with fatigue, chatted amongst each in low tones as in
the bosom of their family. It was so with Coucou Peter, Hans Aden, Dame
Thérèse, and Mathéus: it might have been imagined that they had known one
another for long years, when they were seated about the fire, and the
bottle passed from hand to hand; they felt quite at home.
“After you, Dame Thérèse,” said Coucou Peter. “Jolly, this small wine of
Alsace!—Where was it grown, Maître Hans Aden?”
“At Eckersthal.”
“A famous place! Hand me a slice of ham.”
“Here it is, Monsieur Coucou Peter.”
“Your health, Maître Frantz!”
“Yours, my children! What a beautiful night!—how mild the air is! Great
Demiourgos foresaw that his children would have no place of shelter for
their heads! O Great Being!” cried the good man, “Being of Beings! accept
the thanks that rise from a sincere heart! It is not for ourselves alone
that He is to be thanked, my dear friends; but for this innumerable crowd
of creatures come from so far with the honourable purpose of paying Him
their homage!”
“Maître Frantz, you are not seated comfortably; take this truss of straw.”
“This will do very well, Coucou Peter; I am quite comfortable as I am.”
Schimel’s pannier was set up against the wall, and Coucou Peter, every
moment, lifted the covering to see whether the little one was sleeping
soundly. Bruno and Schimel were quietly munching their allowance; and
when the flickering rays of the fire fell upon the posts, the windows
fringed with rugged tufts of straw, waggons, and a thousand other objects
in the shade—when it lit the calm and meditative head of the illustrious
Doctor, the tender face of Thérèse, or the jovial features of Coucou
Peter, the whole scene resembled an old picture out of the Bible.
Towards eleven o’clock Mathéus asked permission to be allowed to go to
sleep; tall Hans Aden had already stretched himself by the wall, and
slept profoundly; Dame Thérèse was not yet sleepy, nor was Coucou Peter,
and they continued their conversation in a low tone.
Before sinking into repose, Maître Frantz heard the voice of the crier
repeating in the silence—“Eleven o’clock—past eleven!” then footsteps
passing down the street, a dog barking and rattling his chain; he opened
his eyes, and saw the shadow of Schimel’s ears moving on the wall like
the wings of a night-moth.
The servants of the Three Roses bolted the doors and laughed in the
passage; these were his last impressions.