Nine o’clock was striking at the Cathedral when Frantz Mathéus and his
disciple stopped in front of the Heron brewery. The great yard, shaded
by lime-trees, was full of company; a troop of gipsies accompanied
the tumult with their wild music. Kasper Müller, the brewer, in his
shirt-sleeves, went from table to table, shaking hands and interchanging
jocular greetings with the drinkers; and all these figures, grave and
comic, hidden in the shade, or distinctly seen in the uncertain light,
presented a truly strange spectacle.
The illustrious philosopher, however, instead of giving himself up to his
habitual reflections on the affinities of races, looked on all with a
dull eye. It might have been said, to see him with outstretched neck and
dangling legs, that he despaired of the doctrine, and of the future of
the generations to come.
“Come, Maître Frantz,” said Coucou Peter to him, “courage! Go into your
friend Georges Müller’s house; he can’t fail to recognise you—then,
hurrah! If we can only find a lodging for to-night, to-morrow we’ll
convert the world!”
Mathéus obeyed mechanically; he alighted, buttoned his brown greatcoat,
and advanced with trembling steps into the yard, casting undecided
glances at all the groups, and not knowing whom to address.
Presently Kasper Müller perceived him wandering under the roofs like a
troubled spirit; the good man’s face, stamped with sadness, interested
him greatly. He came forward to meet him, and inquired what he needed.
“Monsieur,” replied Mathéus, with a low bow, “will you have the kindness
to tell me where I can find Georges Müller?”
“Georges Müller? He’s been dead these fifteen years!”
“Good heavens! Is it possible to be more unfortunate than I am?” cried
the good man, in a choking voice.
He bowed again, and was moving towards the gate; but the brewer, touched
by the sadness of this exclamation, detained him, and taking him aside,
said, kindly—
“Excuse me, monsieur; you appear to be in some pressing need. Can I not
render you the service you expected of Georges Müller?”
“It is true,” replied Mathéus, his eyes filling with tears, “I am in
pressing want. I came to ask a lodging for the night of Georges Müller,
one of my oldest and dearest acquaintances. Though I have not seen him
for five-and-thirty years—the time at which I finished my studies—I
am sure his heart had not changed, and that he would have given me a
welcome.”
“I have no doubt of it—I have no doubt of it,” replied the brewer; “and
I, his son, will not refuse it to you, be sure of it.”
“You the son of Georges Müller!” cried Mathéus. “You must be little
Kasper, then, whom I have so often rocked on my knees! Ah! my dear child,
how happy I am to see you again! I should not have recognised you, with
those big whiskers and that great ruddy face!”
Kasper could not help smiling at the doctor’s simplicity; but, seeing
a crowd of drinkers gathering about them, he took him into the great
dining-room, then empty, to ascertain more exactly the state of his
affairs. Maître Frantz, without beating about the bush, informed him
under what circumstances he had quitted Graufthal, and acquainted
him with the innumerable vicissitudes of his anthropo-zoological
peregrinations; and Kasper Müller, familiarly placing his hands on the
Doctor’s shoulders, cried—
“You are a good and excellent man! Does not your name appear on the
registry of my birth?”
“Doubtless,” replied the illustrious philosopher; “Maître Georges had me
for a witness.”
“Eh! what need of further explanation is there?” interrupted the brewer.
“You will remain in my house to-night, that’s understood. I’ll have your
horse taken to the stable, and send your disciple to you.”
This said, he quitted Mathéus to go and give his orders.
Coucou Peter had scarcely rejoined the illustrious Doctor in the chief
dining-room, before Charlotte, one of the servants of the house, came
to inform them that all was ready. In spite of this agreeable news,
Frantz Mathéus could not help feeling deeply melancholy. It seemed to him
that the Great Demiourgos, instead of leaving him to have recourse to
Georges Müller, might have given to him, himself, all things necessary to
philosophic existence, the more as it was solely for his glory that he
had left Graufthal without taking with him a single sou.
But Coucou Peter, surprised at finding such a good resting-place,
instead of having to sleep under the stars, was astonished at
everything—at the size of the hotel, at the stairs, furnished with a
handsome copper hand-rail, at the number of the rooms; and when Charlotte
conducted them into a neat room, and he saw on a round table the supper
already smoking, including half a stuffed turkey, his gratitude expressed
itself warmly. “O Great Being!” he cried, “Being of Beings! now is
manifested thy boundless power and infinite wisdom! What a banquet for
poor devils of philosophers, who expected to have to sleep in the street!”
He uttered these words in such an expressive tone of voice that Charlotte
instantly conceived an affection for him; but the illustrious Doctor made
no reply, for he was truly downcast, and making sad reflections on the
philosophic career.
Reflecting that the greatest philosopher of modern times, the successor
of Pythagoras, of Philolaus, and all the sages of India and Egypt, the
illustrious Frantz Mathéus of Graufthal, instead of being received by
the population with enthusiasm, of being borne in triumph over roads
strewn with palm, had run the risk of having to lie in the street and of
dying of hunger, he became deeply melancholy, and while he ate, bitterly
recapitulated in his mind the events of his journey; the beating he had
received at Oberbronn, Jacob Fischer’s attempt to seize Bruno, the threat
of the Procureur of Saverne, and the proposition of Coucou Peter to go
and sing in the beerhouses. This last circumstance above all wounded him
to the depths of his soul, and every now and then large tears filled
his eyes; for he saw himself, like Belisarius, holding out his hand for
charity at a street-corner.
Coucou Peter at first paid no attention to his distressed aspect; but
towards the end of the meal he perceived it, and cried, as he set down
his glass—
“What the deuce are you thinking of, Maître Mathéus? I never saw you
looking like this before!”
“I am thinking,” replied the good man, “that human kind is unworthy to
know the sublime truths of anthropo-zoology. The peoples appear to me
to be struck with a deplorable—and I must say wilful—blindness; for if
they are blind, it is because they choose to be so. In vain have we
attempted to make them listen to the voice of justice. In vain have we
tried by eloquence and persuasion to soften their hearts. In vain have we
sacrificed our dearest affections, quitted the roof of our fathers, our
friends, our——”
He was unable to finish; his heart, swelled more and more by the
enumeration of these calamities, ended by stifling his voice; and, bowing
his head upon the table, he burst into tears.
At that moment Kasper Müller, having shut up the brewery, for it was
eleven o’clock, entered the room with a bottle of old wolxheim in each
hand. He was struck by the sight of the Doctor’s distress.
“Good heavens!” he said, stopping at the threshold, “what has happened?
Here I was coming to clink glasses with an old friend of my father, and I
find everybody down in the mouth!”
Coucou Peter gave up his seat to him, and told him the state of affairs.
“Is that all?” cried Kasper Müller. “Have you reached your age, my dear
monsieur, without having learned what men are? Why, if I were to weep at
all the rascals to whom I have rendered services, and who have repaid me
with ingratitude, it would take me six months to do it! Come, come, cheer
up! What the deuce! You are in the midst of good and trustworthy friends.
Come, drink a cup of this old wolxheim—it will raise your spirits.”
Speaking in this manner, he filled the glasses, and drank the illustrious
philosopher’s health. But Frantz Mathéus was too deeply affected to be so
quickly consoled; in spite of the excellence of the wolxheim, in spite
of the kind speeches of his host, and of Coucou Peter’s encouragements,
his soul remained oppressed by an undefined sadness. It was not until
later, when Kasper Müller led the conversation on to the subject of the
good old times, that he appeared to recover himself. With what delight
the excellent old man retraced the physiognomies of the past, the
simplicity of manners, the affectionate cordiality of the old inhabitants
of Strasbourg, the simple and patriarchal family life! It became evident
that all his affections, his whole soul, his whole heart, took refuge in
that far-distant past.
Coucou Peter, with his elbow resting on the table, gravely smoked his
pipe; Kasper Müller smiled at the good man’s recitals; and Charlotte,
seated behind the stove, fell asleep in spite of herself—her head bowing
slowly, slowly, and then, at intervals, recovering itself with a jerk.
It was nearly one o’clock when Kasper Müller took leave of his guest, and
Charlotte, half asleep, conducted Coucou Peter to a neighbouring chamber,
and was able to get to rest after her fatigues.
Left alone, Maître Frantz raised the curtain of his window, and for
some minutes contemplated the deserted and silent streets of the city.
The lamps were going out—the moon cast her pale light on the chimneys;
an indescribable feeling of lonesomeness and sadness came upon his
soul; he felt as if he were alone in the world! At length he went to
bed, murmuring a prayer, and, having fallen asleep, the fair valley of
Graufthal was brought back to him: he heard the rustling of the foliage,
and the blackbird singing in the shady alleys of the pines. It was a
beautiful dream!