Maître Frantz and his disciple passed quickly through the town. The
little houses scattered along the roadsides rapidly succeeded one
another, with their barns, stables, and wooden steps with washing hanging
upon them—ruddy-faced children asked alms, and old inquisitive women put
their nodding heads out of the upper windows. At the end of a quarter
of an hour they were in the country, breathing the free air, passing
between two rows of chestnut-trees, listening to the song of the birds,
and thinking still of the worthy Pastor Schweitzer, by whom they had been
so well received—of soft-hearted little Gredel, who had wept so freely at
seeing them depart.
When the smoky roofs of Saverne and the weathercock of the church had
disappeared behind the mountain, Coucou Peter at length shook off the
deep reverie in which he had been indulging, and after two or three times
clearing his voice, he gravely chanted the old ballad of ‘The Count
of Geroldsek:’ the yellow dwarf keeping watch on the highest tower,
the deliverance of the fair Itha, held captive at Haut-Bârr. There was
something melancholy in Coucou Peter’s voice, for he was thinking of his
little Gredel. Bruno’s step was in cadence; and to the mind of Mathéus,
listening to this old language, returned dim and vague memories. After
the last verse Coucou Peter took breath, and cried—
“What a jolly life these Counts of Geroldsek led!—going about the
mountain, carrying off girls, fighting husbands—drinking, singing,
feasting, from morning till night! What a glorious existence! The king
himself wasn’t fit to be their cousin!”
“Doubtless—doubtless, the Counts of Geroldsek were great and powerful
nobles,” replied Mathéus. “Their authority extended from the county of
Bârr to Sûngau, and from Lower Mundat to Bassigny, in Champagne; the
richest jewels, the most beautiful arms, the most magnificent hangings,
belonged to their sumptuous castles in Alsace and Lorraine; the most
exquisite wines filled their cellars, numerous knights rode under their
banners, crowds of gentlemen and valets attended upon them in their
courts—some monks also, whom they held in great esteem. Unfortunately,
instead of practising anthropo-zoological virtues, these noble personages
destroyed travellers on the highway; and the Being of Beings, weary of
their rapine, has made them descend in the rank of animals.”
“Ah!” cried Coucou Peter, laughing, “it seems to me that I must once have
been one of those good monks you have just been speaking about. I must
try and find out, the first time I go by Geroldsek.”
“How do you mean to do that?”
“I shall go up to the castle, and if ever I have been one of those good
monks, I shall find out the road to the cellar at once.”
While deploring the sensual tendencies of his disciple, Mathéus inwardly
laughed at his gay humour. “One cannot be perfect,” he said to himself.
“This poor Coucou Peter thinks only of satisfying his physical
appetites; but he is so good a fellow that the Great Demiourgos will
not be offended with him; he will even laugh, I think, at the idea of
the monk and his proof of the cellar of Geroldsek!” And the illustrious
philosopher shook his head, as much as to say, “He’ll never change! He’ll
never change!”
Chatting in this manner, they made their way quietly along by the Zorn.
For more than an hour they had kept to the other side of the road, so as
to be within the shade of the trees, for the sun was high, and the heat
overpowering. As far as the eye could reach nothing was to be seen on
the immense plain of Alsace but waving fields of rye, wheat, and oats;
the hot air was laden with the scent of long grass. But the eye turned
involuntarily towards the river, under the shadow of the old willows
dipping their long branches in the water, and the thought arose, of what
delight it would be to bathe in the fresh and limpid waves!
Towards noon, Frantz Mathéus and his disciple halted near a spring
surrounded with alders, at a little distance off the road. They unsaddled
Bruno. Coucou Peter put his flask of wolxheim to cool in the spring; he
then produced the provisions from his haversack, and lay down beside his
master, between two ridges of oats, which completely sheltered them from
the heat of the day.
It is a delicious sensation, after the fatigue and dust of the road, to
rest in the shade, to hear the gush of water through the grass, to watch
the thousands of insects passing above one’s head in joyous caravans, and
to feel the great golden heads of the corn rustling about one.
Bruno browsed along the hedge; Coucou Peter raised himself upon his
elbow with indescribable satisfaction, clicked his tongue, and now and
then presented the flask to Mathéus; but it was only for form’s sake,
for the illustrious philosopher preferred spring-water to the best wine,
especially during such heat. At last the gay fiddler finished his meal,
closed his pocket-knife, and cried with a satisfied air—
“All goes well, Maître Frantz; it is clear the Great Demiourgos protects
us—clear as day! We’re far from Saverne; and if that beggar of a
procureur lays hold of us now, I’ll consent to be hanged at once. Let us
now take a last pull at the flask, and get on our way; for if we arrive
too late, the gates of the city will be closed.”
Saying that, he replaced his haversack, presented the bridle to Mathéus,
and the illustrious philosopher having bestridden Bruno, they went
forward, full of courage and confidence. The great heat was passed, the
shadow of the neighbouring hills began to stretch across the road, and
the Rhine breeze to refresh the air.
At every village, however, Coucou Peter remembered that he had still
three francs left of the thirty given him by Dame Thérèse, and made a
visit to the nearest wine-shop. Everywhere he fell in with acquaintances,
and found a pretext for offering or accepting a bottle. But it was in
vain that he begged his master to enter the public-houses; for Mathéus,
seeing that in this manner they could never get to the end of their
destination, remained on horseback at the door, in the midst of a circle
of peasants who collected to look at him. The most he would do was to
accept a glass through the window, in token of good-fellowship with the
numerous friends of his disciple.
At length, towards evening, they came in sight of the ancient city
of Strasbourg. Great animation had already exhibited itself on their
passage; every moment they met carriages, waggoners leading their horses
by the bridle, customs officers, armed with their sharp iron probe,
pricking packages, and diligences filled with conscripts.
A crowd of lights appeared in the distance, and repeated themselves in
the dark stream of the Ile. But when they had made their way across the
bridge, and through the crowded and noisy corps de garde, and the winding
outworks; when they had penetrated into the city, with its old houses,
their fronts falling into decay, their thousand windows gleaming in the
light of the hanging lamps; its silk-mercers and sweetstuff-shops and
library illuminated as if by magic-lanterns; street-doors blocked up with
merchandise, tortuous alleys hiding away in the darkness; when all these
objects met their view, what tenderly affecting thoughts returned to the
good Doctor’s memory!
Here he had spent the happiest years of his youth; here was the Heron
beerhouse where every evening, on leaving the medical lecture-room, he
came to smoke his pipe and take a pint of beer in company with Ludwig,
Conrad, Bastien, and many other joyous comrades. There it was that the
seignor perorated gravely in the midst of his subject Burchen; that the
pretty waitresses moved about them, laughing with one, replying with a
wink to another, and answering the orders of their mistress with, “Coming
directly, madame.” Ah, happy days, how far off now! What has become of
you, Conrad, Wilhelm, Ludwig, brave drinkers that you were?—what has
become of you these forty years? And you, Gretchen, Rosa, Charlotte,
what has become of you?—you, so fresh, so graceful, so active, who used
to worry little Frantz, sitting always so grave at the corner of the
table, smoking calmly and sipping his beer, with his eyes raised to the
ceiling, dreaming already, perhaps, of his sublime anthropo-zoological
discoveries? What has become of you, youth, grace, beauty, life without
care, and with unbounded hope? Ah, you are far, far off! And you, poor
Mathéus! have grown old; your locks are grey, you have nothing left but
your system to sustain you.
Thus the good man meditated, his heart beating, and the crowd, the
vehicles, the shops, and edifices about him having no power to draw him
from his recollections.
Sometimes, however, the aspect of the spot he was passing changed the
current of his melancholy musing: there, by the custom-house, under the
roof of that high house, reflected in the Ile, and looking down upon
the passing boats, was his garret-chamber; his little ink-stained deal
table, his bed hung with blue curtains in the recess, and he, Frantz
Mathéus, young, with his elbows on an ancient folio spread before a
solitary candle, studying the principles of the learned Paracelsus, who
places the soul in the stomach; of the profound La Caze, who fixes it in
the tendonous centre of the diaphragm; of the judicious Ernest Platner,
who makes it drawn in with the atmosphere by the lungs; of the sublime
Descartes, who incloses it in the pineal gland—of all those great masters
of human thoughts. Yes, he again saw all this, and smiled gently; for
since then how many precious facts, how many learned discoveries, had
been stored in his mind!
“Ah!” he said to himself, “if the body exhausts itself and becomes
feeble, the intelligence develops itself every day. Eternal youth of
the soul, which cannot grow old, and completes itself by successive
transformations!”
Still farther on was the dwelling of Louise—of good, innocent Louise—who
span, singing a simple air, while he, Mathéus, seated on a stool at her
feet, gazed on her for entire hours, murmuring, “Louise, do you truly
love me?” And she would answer, “You know well, Frantz, that I love you.”
Oh, sweet memories! can all have been but a dream?
The good man gave himself up to the charm of these distant recollections;
he seemed still to be hearing Louise’s spinning-wheel humming in the
silence, when the voice of Coucou Peter scattered his charming illusions.
“Where are you going, Maître Frantz?” he asked.
“Where duty calls us,” replied Mathéus.
“Yes, but to what place?”
“To wherever is most proper for the propagation of the doctrine.”
They had reached the Rue des Arcades, and halted under a lamp.
“Are you not hungry, Maître Frantz?” inquired Coucou Peter.
“Slightly, my friend.”
“Like me,” said the disciple, scratching his ear; “the Great Demiourgos
ought to send us a supper.”
Mathéus looked at Coucou Peter; he had not in the least the appearance of
jesting, and this fact made Mathéus himself very serious.
For more than a quarter of an hour they watched the people passing
through the arcades—sellers crying their wares, pretty girls stopping
at the shop-windows, students jingling their spurs on the pavement and
smacking their riding-whips, grave professors making their way through
the crowd, with packets of books under their arms.
At length Coucou Peter said—
“I think, Maître Frantz, the Being of Beings has forgotten us at the
present moment. By my faith, we should do no harm to go and earn a few
sous in the beershops, instead of waiting till He sends us a supper. If
you knew how to sing, I should say come in with me; but as it is, I’ll go
in alone, and you can wait for me at the door.”
This proposition appeared very humiliating to Mathéus, but not knowing
what answer to make, he resigned himself, and followed his disciple, who
went up the Grande Rue and took his violin out of its bag.
Nothing could be sadder to see than the good Doctor going from
public-house to public-house, and watching through the window his
disciple dancing sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the other, to support
the doctrine. He was obliged to remind himself of his high mission,
and say to himself that the Being of Beings wished to test his courage
before raising him to the highest experience of glory; he did not fail
to despise the rich warehouses, the magnificent displays, the luxury and
opulence about him, crying to himself—
“Vanitas vanitatum, est omnia vanitas! Your pride is but as dust, O great
ones of the earth! You will pass away like shadows, and be as if you had
never been!”
All these sublime truths served very little purpose; and, to add to the
distress, Bruno was strongly inclined to enter every inn he came to.
They stopped before more than twenty taverns, and towards nine o’clock
Coucou Peter had yet but five sous in his pocket.
“Doctor,” he said, “things are going wrong; here are three sous, if you
like to take a glass; for myself, I shall go and buy a loaf, for my
stomach is getting emptier every moment.”
“Thanks, Coucou Peter—thanks!” replied the good man, very sadly. “I am
not thirsty; but listen to me. I recollect now that Georges Müller, the
landlord of the Heron hotel, made me promise never to put up at any other
house than his. It was on the last day of our Fuchcommerce, our studies
being finished. Georges Müller, seeing that my comrades and I had paid
up all our debts, shook us by the hand, and offered us his hotel if by
chance any of us returned to Strasbourg. The promise I remember as well
as if it had been given to-day, and it is my duty to keep my word.”
“How long ago was it?” inquired Coucou Peter, his face lighting up with
hope.
“Five-and-thirty years ago,” replied Mathéus, ingenuously.
“Five-and-thirty years!” cried Coucou Peter. “And do you imagine that
Georges Müller is still there?”
“No doubt. I observed his sign as I passed; nothing has been changed.”
“Well, then, let us go to the Heron,” said the disciple, with a downcast
air. “If there’s nothing to be gained there, there’s nothing to be lost!
May the Great Demiourgos come to our assistance!”