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• Only a Clod.
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• Trail of the Serpent.
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THE
ILLUSTRIOUS DR. MATHÉUS.

THE
ILLUSTRIOUS DR. MATHÉUS.

BY
MM. ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN,
Authors of “Madame Thérèse,” “The Conscript,” “The Blockade,”
“Waterloo,” “The Story of a Peasant,” &c.

LONDON:
WARD, LOCK, AND, TYLER,
WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW.

THE
ILLUSTRIOUS DR. MATHÉUS.

CHAPTER I.

In the little woodland town of Graufthal, on the borders of the Vosges and of Alsace, there lived one of those respectable rural doctors who still wore perruques, large square-tailed coats, knee-breeches, and silver-buckled shoes.

This worthy man was named Frantz Mathéus. He inherited from his ancestors the oldest house in the place, an orchard, some arable land on the mountain, a few acres of meadow in the valley; and if you add to this modest patrimony eggs, milk, cheese, and, from time to time, a lean fowl, sent to the Doctor by the honest peasants out of the fulness of their gratitude, you will have the whole of Maître Frantz’s income: it sufficed for his maintenance and that of his old servant Martha, as well as his horse Bruno.

Maître Frantz was a curious type of the old doctores medicinæ, theologiæ or philosophiæ of the good German school. His face expressed the gentlest placidity, the most perfect good-nature; his ruling passion was metaphysics. The same pleasure which you, I imagine, might take in reading Candide or The Sentimental Journey, he experienced in meditating the Tractatus Theologico-politicus of Baruch Spinosa, or the Monadologie of Leibnitz. He also made experiments in physics and chemistry for his own amusement.

Having one day put some flour of ergot-rye into a bottle of water, he perceived, at the end of a month or two, that his rye had given birth to a number of little eels, which speedily produced a crowd of others. Mathéus, transported with enthusiasm at this discovery, at once concluded from it that if eels can be made with rye-flour, men may be made with the flour of wheat. But after reflecting more on the subject the learned Doctor thought that this transformation must be effected slowly—progressively; that from rye would come eels—from eels fish of all kinds; from these fishes, reptiles, quadrupeds, birds, and so on, up to man inclusive—the whole by virtue of the law of progress. He called this progression “the ladder of being;” and as he had studied Greek, Latin, and several other languages, he set himself to compose a magnificent work, in sixteen volumes, entitled, Palingenesis-Psychologico-Anthropo-Zoology, explaining spontaneous generation, the transformation of bodies, and the peregrination of souls; citing Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, Isis and Osiris, Thales of Miletus, Heraclitus, Democritus—in short, all the cosmological philosophers, both ancient and modern.

He sent several copies of this work to the German universities, and what was more astonishing, a good number of philosophers adopted his system; titles were conferred on him of Corresponding Member of the Surgical Institution of Prague, of the Royal Society of Sciences of Gœttingen, and of Veterinary Councillor of the Stud of Wurtzbourg.

Mathéus, encouraged by these tokens of appreciation, resolved to bring out a second edition of his Palingenesis, enriched with notes in Hebrew and Syriac in elucidation of the text.

But his old servant—a woman of great sense—represented to him that this glorious enterprise had already cost him half of all he was worth; and that he would be obliged to sell his horse, his orchard, and his meadows, to print his Syriac notes. She begged him to think a little more of mundane matters, and to moderate his anthropo-zoological ardour.

These judicious considerations greatly vexed Maître Frantz, but he could not help seeing that the good woman was right; he sighed deeply, and kept his aspirations after glory to himself.

Now all this had happened a long time ago. Mathéus had returned to his habitual mode of life; he mounted his horse early in the morning to go and visit his patients; he returned late, harassed with fatigue; in the evening, instead of shutting himself up in his library, he went down into the garden to prune his vine, to clear his trees of caterpillars, and to hoe his lettuces; after supper, Jean-Claude Wachtmann the schoolmaster, Christian the garde champêtre, and a few gossips of the neighbourhood with their spinning-wheels dropped in. They all sat round a table, and chatted about the weather, Mathéus entertaining them with news of his patients; and, at nightfall, he went tranquilly to bed, to recommence on the morrow.

Thus passed the days, months, and years. But this peaceful mode of existence could not console Maître Frantz for having missed his vocation. Often, in his distant rides, alone in the midst of the woods, he reproached himself for his fatal inaction: “Frantz,” he said to himself, “Graufthal is not the place for you! All those whom the Being of beings has made depositaries of the treasures of science belong to humanity. What will you answer to that Great Being when the time for rendering an account of yourself shall have come? Will He not say to you, in a voice of thunder: ‘Frantz Mathéus, I had gifted you with the most magnificent intelligence, I had unveiled to you things divine and human, I had destined you from the beginning of time to spread the lights of sound philosophy; where are your works? In vain for you to try to excuse yourself on the plea of its being necessary for you to attend to the sick; these vulgar duties were not made for you; others would have filled your place. Go, Frantz, go; you were not worthy of the confidence I placed in you, and I condemn you to redescend the ladder of being!’”

Sometimes even the good soul woke himself in the middle of the night with crying out, “Frantz! Frantz! you are highly culpable!”

His old servant would rush to his bedside in alarm, exclaiming—

“Good heavens! what’s the matter?”

“It is nothing—it is nothing,” Mathéus would answer; “I have had a bad dream—that’s all.”

This moral condition of the illustrious doctor could not endure for ever; the repression of his metaphysical tendencies was too severe.

One evening, as he was returning to the village along the bank of the Zinsel, he met one of those hawkers of bibles and almanacs who make their way even to the tops of the mountains to sell their wares. Maître Frantz had not lost the taste for worm-eaten books; he dismounted, and looked over the hawker’s stock. By the merest chance this one possessed a copy of the Anthropo-Zoology, which he had not been able to dispose of for fifteen years; and, seeing Mathéus regard this work with a thoroughly paternal love, he did not fail to tell him that nothing sold better than that, that everybody wanted to read this book, that no more copies were to be had, and that in consequence of this great demand the work was every day becoming more rare.

Maître Frantz’s heart beat strongly, his hand trembled.

“Oh, Great Demiourgos! Great Demiourgos!” he murmured to himself; “here I recognise thine infinite wisdom. Out of the mouths of the simple thou recallest the sages to their duties!”

Maître Frantz returned to Graufthal in a state of extreme agitation: he went about vaguely; a crowd of incoherent ideas pressed upon his mind. Should he go and live at Gœttingen? Should he go to Prague? Ought he to reprint the Palingenesis with new notes? Or ought he to apostrophise the age on its indifference to the subject of anthropo-zoology?

All this tormented, distressed him; but the means appeared to him too long, and his impatience admitting of no delay, he resolved to follow the example of the old prophets—to go forth himself into the universe and preach his own doctrine.

CHAPTER II.

When Frantz Mathéus had formed the generous resolve of illuminating the world with his own light, a strange and undefinable calm entered into the depths of his soul. It was the eve of St. Boniface, towards six o’clock in the evening; a splendid sun lit the valley of Graufthal, and relieved the motionless branches of the tall firs against the clear sky.

The good man was seated in the old arm-chair of his forefathers, near the small casement, his eyes wandering over the silent little town stretched at the foot of the misty mountains.

Peasants were mowing grass on the skirt of the forest; women, old Martha herself amongst them, armed with rakes, were turning the hay and singing old country airs.

The Zinsel murmured softly in its pebbly bed; a low hum filled the air; long files of ducks were taking their way up the stream, and every now and then raised their nasal cry; fowls were sleeping under the shadow of walls, on the shafts of carts and implements of labour; chubby children were romping and amusing themselves on the thresholds of cottages; and watchdogs, their muzzles between their paws, gave themselves up to the overpowering heat of the day.

This calm scene insensibly touched the heart of Mathéus; silent tears stole down his venerable cheeks; he took his already grey head between his hands, and, with his elbows on the window-ledge, wept like a child.

A crowd of tender recollections rose to his mind. That rustic dwelling, the abode of his father—this little garden, the trees of which he had cultivated, every plant in which he had sown—this old oak furniture, embrowned by time—all reminded him of his peaceful happiness, his habits, his friends, his infancy; and it almost seemed as if each of those inanimate objects appealed to him in touching accents not to desert them—reproached him for his ingratitude, and commiserated him beforehand on his loneliness in the world. And the heart of Frantz Mathéus echoed all these voices, and at every recollection fresh tears streamed more abundantly from his eyes.

Then, when he thought of the poor little town of which he was in some sort the only providence; when, through his tears, he looked at each of the little doors at which he had so often stopped to speak words of consolation, to distribute help, and to give ease to human sufferings; when he remembered all the hands that had pressed his, all the looks of affection and love that had blessed him—then he felt the weight of his resolution almost more than he could bear, and dared not think of the moment of his departure.

“What will Christian Schmidt say,” he thought, “whose wife I cured of a cruel malady, and who does not know how sufficiently to show his gratitude to me? What will Jacob Zimmer say, whom I saved from ruin, when he had not a farthing left to rebuild his barn? What will old Martha say, who has taken care of me with a mother’s tenderness, who brought me my coffee and cream every morning, who mended my breeches and stockings, and who would never go to bed till she had covered me up and pulled my cotton nightcap down to my ears? Poor Martha!—poor, poor, good old Martha! Only yesterday she was knitting me warm under-stockings, and putting away the dozen new shirts she had spun for me with her own hands! And what will Georges Brenner say, on hearing that his wood will be burnt by somebody else? He’ll be very angry; he’s a man of the canine race, who will not listen to reason, and will not let me go.”

Such were the reflections of Frantz Mathéus; and if his resolution had not been firm, indestructible, so many obstacles would have overthrown his courage.

But as the sun went down towards the Falberg, and the coolness of night spread itself over the bottom of the valley, he felt calmness and serenity revive within his soul; his eyes rose lovingly towards heaven, the last rays of twilight illuminating his inspired brow; he might have been thought to be praying silently. Frantz Mathéus was thinking of the incalculable consequences of his system for the happiness of future men, and nothing but Martha’s arrival could interrupt the flow of his sublime meditations.

He heard his old servant go into the kitchen, put away her rake behind the door, and begin to take down plates and dishes preparatory to supper.

These sounds, familiar to his ear; Martha’s tread, which he would have recognised among a thousand; the hum of the little town, the song of the men and women haymakers returning merrily home, the small windows in which lights were appearing one by one—all this once more affected the good man; he dared not stir from his seat; with joined hands and head bent down, he listened to these intermingled sounds. “Listen to these beloved sounds,” he said to himself, “for perhaps you may never hear them again!—never!”

Suddenly Martha opened the room-door. She could not see her master, and called out—

“Are you there, Doctor?”

“Yes, Martha, I am here,” answered Mathéus, in a trembling voice.

“Bless us! why do you sit in the dark like that? I’ll run and get a light.”

“There is no need. I would rather speak to you so. I would rather tell you—— Come—come here and listen to me.”

Mathéus could not articulate another word; his heart beat violently, and he thought: “If I were to see her face when I tell her what I must tell her—it would be more than I could bear.”

Martha felt by the Doctor’s tone of voice that she was going to hear distressing news, and her knees bent under her.

“What is the matter with you, Doctor?” she said; “your voice trembles!”

“It is nothing—it is nothing, my good, my dear Martha!—it is nothing. Sit down—here, near me; I have something to tell you——”

But again the words died upon his lips.

After a few moments’ silence, he went on—

“It will distress you, but it must be done.”

The old servant in great anxiety hurried away to fetch the lamp; when she returned she saw Mathéus looking as pale as death.

“You are ill, Doctor,” she cried; “you are in pain, I am sure!”

But the illustrious Doctor had had time to collect his thoughts. A luminous idea flashed upon his mind—

“If I can succeed in convincing Martha, all will go well, and it will clearly prove besides that entire humanity will be unable to resist the eloquence of Frantz Mathéus.” Full of this conviction, he rose.

“Martha,” he said, “look me full in the face.”

“I’m looking at you, Doctor,” replied the bewildered old servant.

“Well, you see before you Frantz Mathéus, Doctor of Medicine of the Faculty of Strasbourg, Corresponding Member of the Surgical Institute of Prague and of the Royal Society of Sciences of Gœttingen, Veterinary Councillor of the Stud of Wurtzbourg, and formerly, by a truly frightful concourse of circumstances, Surgeon-Major to the band of Schinderhannes.”

Here the Doctor paused, to allow Martha time to appreciate the full magnificence of these titles. He then went on—

“Frantz Mathéus, sole inventor of the famous psychologico-anthropo-zoological doctrine, which has shaken the world, astounded ignorance, exasperated envy, and struck the universe with admiration! Frantz Mathéus, to whom have been entrusted the destinies of humanity and of cosmological philosophy, founded on the three kingdoms of nature—vegetable, animal, and human! Frantz Mathéus, who for fifteen years has languished in shameful ease, and whose indignant conscience every day reproaches him with having abandoned to the hazard of systems, to the sophisms of schools, and to the disastrous influence of prejudice, the future of humankind!”

Martha trembled in every limb; never had she seen her master in such a state of enthusiasm.

The illustrious philosopher, on his side, marked with satisfaction his servant’s bewilderment. He went on with redoubled eloquence—

“How long, Mathéus, will you take upon yourself this frightful responsibility? How long will you forget the sublime mission imposed on you by genius? Do you not hear the voices calling you? Do you not know that, to mount the ladder of being, one must suffer, and that to suffer is to merit? Ignorance and sophistry raise themselves in vain against you? March—march! Frantz Mathéus! Sow on your way the beneficent germs of anthropo-zoology, and your glory, immortal as truth, shall grow from age to age, sheltering beneath its evergreen foliage the future generations! It is for this purpose, Martha, that you must pack up my valise this evening; tell Nickel, the cobbler, to mend Bruno’s saddle; give a double feed of oats to the poor beast; and I shall set off to-morrow before daybreak, to preach my doctrine to the universe.”

At this conclusion Martha was very nearly tumbling backwards; she thought her master had gone out of his senses.

“What, Doctor!” she stammered; “you want to leave us—to abandon us? Oh, no! it’s impossible! You—so good—who have none but friends in the place! You can’t think of such a thing!”

“It must be so,” replied Mathéus stoically—“it must be so; it is my duty.”

Martha said no more, and appeared to resign herself. As usual, she laid the cloth and served up the Doctor’s supper. That day it was a fowl with rice, and filberts for dessert; Mathéus—of the family of the nibblers—was very fond of nuts. His servant redoubled her usual attentions; she herself carved the fowl, and assisted him to the most delicate morsels; she refilled his glass to the brim, and looked at him with a melancholy eye, as if in pity.

When the meal was finished, she conducted Mathéus into his little bedroom, turned the bedclothes down herself, and satisfied herself that his cotton nightcap was under the pillow.

All was white, clean, neatly arranged; the china washhand-basin on the stand, the ewer of fresh water in the basin, the little glass shining between the two windows; the bookcase, containing the Anthropo-Zoology, in sixteen volumes, some Latin authors, and books of medicine carefully dated; everywhere might be recognised the attentive care of the vigilant housewife.

After having convinced herself that everything was in its place, Martha opened the door and wished her master “good night” in a voice so touching that the illustrious philosopher felt heartrent. He would have liked to have thrown himself upon the excellent woman’s neck, and said to her, “Martha—my good Martha—you cannot imagine how much Frantz Mathéus admires your courage and resignation. He predicts for you the highest future destiny!” That is what he would have liked to have said; but fear of a too pathetic scene calmed his deep emotion, and he contented himself by again gently enjoining her to give a double feed of oats to Bruno, and to wake him at daybreak.

The good woman went slowly away, and the illustrious Doctor Mathéus, happy in this first triumph, lay down in his feather-bed.

For a long time he could not close an eye; he recapitulated all the events of this memorable day, and the sublime consequences of the anthropo-zoological system; images, invocations, prosopopœia, linked themselves one with another in his luminous mind, until at last his eyelids drooped, and he sank into a profound sleep.

CHAPTER III.

The pale rays of dawn were dimly lighting the little town of Graufthal when Frantz Mathéus opened his eyes; the red cock of his neighbour Christina Bauer awoke him with its matutinal crow at the moment when Socrates and Pythagoras were placing crowns of imperishable flowers upon his head.

This happy omen put him immediately into a good humour. He pulled on his breeches, and opened his window to breathe the free air. But judge of his surprise when he discovered, a few steps from the door, Jean-Claude Wachtmann, the schoolmaster, pacing to and fro, a paper in his hand, and making truly extraordinary gestures.

What increased the Doctor’s astonishment was to see that Jean-Claude had on his large Sunday coat, and that he wore his immense three-cornered hat and silver-buckled shoes.

“What are you doing here so early in the morning, Maître Claude?” he asked.

“I am reading,” replied the schoolmaster gravely, without disturbing himself; “I am reading a piece of eloquence composed by myself—something to soften the heart of a rock!”

The gesture, the attitude, and the imposing look of Jean-Claude portended trouble to the soul of Frantz Mathéus; he began to conceive vague uneasiness.

“Maître Claude,” he said in a faltering voice, “I am not unaware of your talents and remarkable learning; will you have the kindness to let me look at this discourse?”

“You shall hear it, Doctor—you shall hear it, when the others are assembled,” replied Claude Wachtmann, putting his paper into the large pocket of his black coat; “it is before everybody I wish to read this remarkable work, the fruit of my studies and of my profound sorrow.”

The schoolmaster’s look was august as he pronounced these words, and Frantz Mathéus felt himself turn pale.

“Martha! Martha!” he murmured to himself, “what have you done? Not content with shaking my courage by your tears, you still further take advantage of my being asleep to raise the village against me!”

Alas! the illustrious Doctor had not deceived himself; his perfidious servant had given the note of warning, and the report of his departure had spread far and wide.

Georges Brenner, the woodman, soon made his appearance. He cast a savage look towards the Doctor’s house, and clapped himself down on the stone bench by the door; then came Christian, the thresher, every feature expressing dejection; then Katel Schmidt, the miller’s sister; then all the village, women, children, old folks, as if to a funeral.

Mathéus, hidden behind his windows, shuddered on seeing the gathering storm. His first idea was to confront this ignorant crowd, entirely destitute of the simplest notions on the subject of the three kingdoms of nature—to make them blush for their narrow selfishness, by demonstrating in the most evident manner that Frantz Mathéus owed himself to the universe, and that his sublime genius could not bury itself at Graufthal without committing a terrible crime towards humankind; but afterwards his natural prudence suggested to his mind a less imposing project, though one that was quite legitimate, and requiring tact for its execution: he resolved to go softly into the kitchen, from the kitchen into the barn, then to saddle Bruno and escape by the back-door.

This ingenious design made the good man smile; he pictured to himself Maître Claude’s stupefaction in thinking to catch the hare in its form when it was already trotting far away over the mountain.

Hastily he put on a pair of new woollen stockings, his big brown overcoat, and his heavy riding-boots, furnished with spurs like clock-wheels; then he put on his wide-brimmed hat, which gave him a venerable appearance, and opened his door with infinite caution. But, in crossing the kitchen, he fortunately recollected the Anthropo-Zoology, and returned in haste to put the synopsis in his pocket.

The illustrious Doctor regretted not being able to take with him the sixteen quarto volumes, but he carried in his head all the developments of that great work, as well as the notes, corollaries, references, and a mass of unpublished and curious observations, the results of his later studies.

At last, after a farewell look at his cherished library, he stole, all in a tremble, into the stable, like a captive escaping from the hands of infidels.

Broad daylight already made its way in through the dull panes of a skylight, and the sight of Bruno revived his courage.

Bruno was a vigorous horse, with massive neck and shoulders, wide chest; short, solid, thick-set, with firm hocks; in a word, the worthy and robust bearer of the country Doctor.

On seeing Maître Mathéus go by on Bruno, every one might have said—

“There go the very best beast and the greatest philosopher in the country.”

Frantz Mathéus saw, by his shining and well-rounded paunch, that he had eaten his double feed of oats; therefore, without dissertation of any sort, he put on his large leathern saddle, in one of the holsters of which he placed the copy of his synopsis; then, with a precipitation which proved his great desire to escape Claude Wachtmann’s eloquence, he led his horse into the barn, raised the bar, and opened the folding-door.

But the anger and exasperation of the Doctor are not to be imagined when he saw the whole village gathered about the door, Jean-Claude Wachtmann at the head, Hubert the blacksmith on his right, and Christian Bauer on his left. His venerable face turned suddenly red, and his habitually calm and meditative eyes shot forth the lightnings of a noble indignation.

He mounted abruptly into the saddle, crying—

“Make way!”

But the crowd did not stir, and Maître Frantz even thought he could perceive a mocking smile on all their lips, as if defying him to go.

“Come, my friends, make way for me,” he said, in a less decided tone; “I am going to see my patients in the mountain.”

This falsehood, so contrary to his system, pained him; yet the peasants, who knew his goodness, took no heed of it.

“We know all,” cried fat Catherine, pretending to shed tears in her apron, “we know all! Martha has told us all—you want to leave the village.”

Mathéus was going to reply, when Jean-Claude Wachtmann, with a single wave of his hand, imposed silence on everybody; he then planted himself in front of the Doctor to overpower him by his looks, majestically drew forth his spectacles from their case, pressed them down upon his big nose, smoothed out his paper with a grave air, once more looked around him to command the attention of the crowd, and began to read the following masterpiece in a solemn tone, pausing at the commas and full-stops, and gesticulating like a very preacher:—

“When the great Antiochus, Emperor of Nineveh and Babylon, formed the ambitious design of departing from his kingdom to make the conquest of the five quarters of the world, with the guilty view of covering himself with laurels, his friend Cineas said to him: ‘Great Antiochus, worthy scion of so many kings, Emperor of Babylon, of Nineveh, and of Mesopotamia, a country situate between the Tigris and the Euphrates—magnanimous and invincible warrior! deign to lend an ear to the touching words of your friend Cineas, a man of intelligence, who prostrates himself before you, and who can give you none but the best advice. What is glory, Antiochus?—what is glory? An empty smoke, like a dense shadow that has not the least body to support it. Glory!—the scourge of humanity, bearing with it plague, war, famine, shame and desolation! What! illustrious Antiochus, would you abandon your wife, an august queen full of virtues, and your poor children, who wring their hands and cover themselves with ashes? What! can you have a soul so hardened and perverse as to plunge into an abyss of desolation this people that adores you, these nubile women, these mature men, these infants at the breast, and these old men with locks white as the snow of Mount Ida, of whom you are as it were the father! You hear their cries—their tears—their——’”

He could not proceed any further; the crowd, as with one assent, suddenly burst into tears; the women sobbed, the men sighed, the children squalled, and the whole house was filled with lamentations.

At that moment Claude Wachtmann raised himself upon the point of his toes, and moved his big nose from right to left to assure himself that each one was doing his duty. He caught sight of Jacques Burrus’s little incorrigible, who, having climbed upon the barn-ladder, was holding old Mathéus’ grey cat by the tail and making the poor brute squall dolefully. He made a sign with his finger to the young rascal, who, recollecting his instructions, set to crying with all his might.

Claude Wachtmann then enjoyed his triumph, for never had the like been heard before.

The face of Frantz Mathéus expressed consternation; however, when he heard Cineas speak to the great Antiochus, an imperceptible smile spread over his lips; he moved forward a step, so as to bring the head of Bruno outside of the circle.

Jean-Claude raised his hand, and everybody became silent as if by enchantment.

“Illustrious Doctor Mathéus,” he continued, “in like manner with the inhabitants of Babylon——”

But at the same instant Frantz Mathéus, without waiting for the end, drove both spurs into Bruno, who bounded off like a storm, through hedges, over gardens, crops, bushes; crushing the cabbages of one, the turnips of another, the barley of this one, the oats of that—in short, as if the deuce were in him.

The cries of the crowd pursued him; but the Doctor did not even turn his head, and was soon across the large communal meadow.

Jean-Claude’s face was as lank and yellow as a wax candle. He raised his long arms and cried—

“I have not finished! I have not yet read the passage of Nebuchadnezzar changed into an ox with the plumes of an eagle for his pride! Listen, Jacques—Herbert—Christian!”

But nobody would listen; the whole village was on the track of Mathéus, shouting, hissing, the dogs barking, as if the end of the world had come.

Very soon they saw the Doctor mount the Falberg at a gallop; he had crossed the Zinsel swimming, and was holding on to Bruno’s neck, the tails of his coat flying in the air from the speed at which he was going.

At length he disappeared in the woods, and the peasants looked at one another aghast.

Jean-Claude greatly wanted to return to the continuation of his beautiful discourse, but everybody turned their backs upon him, saying—

“What’s the use of your discourse since we have lost our Doctor? Ah! if we had only thought of it, some one might have held him by the bridle!”

It was thus that the illustrious Doctor Frantz Mathéus, thanks to his heroic resolution, to his presence of mind, and to the vigorous legs of Bruno, succeeded in recovering his independence.

CHAPTER IV.

His delight may be imagined when he saw himself safe from Jean-Claude and all the others. The distant cries of the village soon died on his ears, and gave place to the vast silence of the forest.

Then the good man, praising God for all things, let his bridle fall on Bruno’s neck, and tranquilly ascended the hill of Saverne.

The sun was high when he reached the road; but though the heat struck full upon the nape of his neck, though perspiration trickled down his spine, and Bruno stopped from time to time to crop a few tufts of grass by the wayside, the illustrious philosopher perceived nothing of it. He already beheld himself in the theatre of his triumphs, going from city to city, from village to village, overthrowing sophists, and planting throughout the world the beneficent germs of anthropo-zoology.

“Frantz Mathéus,” he cried, “you are truly predestined! For you alone was reserved the glory of making the human race happy, and of diffusing the eternal light! See these broad-spread lands, these towns, these farms, these hamlets, these cottages—they await your coming! Everywhere the need is felt of a new doctrine, founded on the three kingdoms of nature; everywhere men are moving in doubt and uncertainty. Frantz, I tell you this without vanity, but also without false modesty, the Being of beings has His eye fixed on you! March! march! and your name, like that of Pythagoras, of Moses, of Confucius, and of the most sublime lawgivers, will be repeated from echo to echo to the end of time!”

The illustrious Doctor was reasoning thus in all the sincerity of his soul, and descending the side of the Falberg under the shadow of the firs, when merry shouts, peals of laughter, and the rasping sounds of a violin, drew him from his profound meditations.

He was then about two leagues from Graufthal, in front of the Dripping Pan public-house, where the inhabitants of St.-Jean des Choux came to eat bacon omelettes, and to dance with their sweethearts. A number of people were there: mowers in their shirt-sleeves, and peasant-girls of the neighbourhood in short petticoats, whirling like the wind round the arbour. They raised the leg, stamped, and made passes, double passes, triple passes, and shouted enough to crack the clouds.

Coucou Peter, the fiddler, the famous Coucou Peter, welcomed in all the beershops, breweries, and taverns of Alsace—the good, the jovial Coucou Peter—was seated on a barrel of beer in a recess of the garden, in his big drugget jacket, garnished with steel buttons the size of crown-pieces, with fresh-coloured, plump-looking cheeks, and his hat surmounted by a cock’s feather. He was scraping with full elbow-power an old country waltz, and formed in himself the whole orchestra of the Dripping Pan. Wine, beer, and kirschwasser flowed on the tables, and vigorous kisses, quite openly given, stimulated the universal enjoyment.

In spite of all his cares for the future of the world and of civilisation, Frantz Mathéus could not withhold his admiration from this pleasant sight. He pulled up behind the arbour, and laughed heartily at the little kissings and lovemakings which he discovered through the hornbeam hedge. But while the good man was giving himself up to these curious observations, the fiddler suddenly stopped in the midst of a flourish, sprang from his barrel, and cried, in a ringing voice—

“Ha! ha! ha!—the Doctor! Good Doctor Frantz! Hi, there! Make way for me, that I may bring you the inventor of the peregrination of souls and the transformation of men into potatoes!”

It must be understood that the illustrious philosopher had committed the imprudence of communicating his psychologico-anthropo-zoological meditations to Coucou Peter, who had no fear of compromising the system by disrespectful allusions.

“Ho, Dr. Mathéus!” he cried, coming out of his retreat, “you’ve come in the nick of time. Hey for jollity!”

And throwing his hat into the air, he leaped the ditch, climbed over the paling, and seized Bruno by the bridle.

There was a general hurrah, for all the good people present knew Mathéus.

“Come in, Doctor! Take a glass of wine, Doctor!—no, a glass of kirschwasser—this way, Doctor!”

One took him by the collar, another by the arm, a third by the tail of his coat; and they shouted, and the women laughed, till poor Frantz did not know which way to turn.

Bruno was led into the shade, and a feed of oats given him, and two minutes afterwards the illustrious philosopher found himself seated between Petrus Brentz the gamekeeper, and Tobie Müller, the landlord of the Dripping Pan. Before him danced Coucou Peter, now on one leg, now on the other, and playing the famous Hopser of Lutzelstein with a seductive energy that was truly amazing.

“Take my jug,” cried Tobie.

“Doctor, you’ll drink out of my glass, won’t you?” cried little Suzel. And her lips, parted with a soft smile, showed her little snow-white teeth.

“Yes, my dear,” stammered the good man, whose eyes sparkled with happiness; “yes, with pleasure.”

Some one clapped him on the shoulder.

“Have you breakfasted yet, Doctor?”

“Not yet, my friend.”

“Hi, Maître Tobie! A bacon omelette for the Doctor!”

At last, at the end of a few minutes everybody had returned to their places: the young girls, their arms resting on the table, and their hands entwined in those of their sweethearts; the old papas in front of their mugs of beer, the stout mothers against the hornbeam hedge. Coucou Peter once more gave the signal for the dance, and the waltzing recommenced with greater spirit than ever.

The illustrious philosopher would have liked to have begun to preach then and there, but he saw that youth given up to pleasure was not in a condition to listen to his words with all desirable attention.

In the interval between the galops Coucou Peter returned to the table to empty his glass, and cried—

“Doctor Frantz, your legs must be stiff! Take one of these pretty little pullets, and off with you both! Look at little Grédel yonder—how neatly she’s made, how appetising! What a waist! what eyes! what pretty little feet! Grédel, come here! Doesn’t your heart prompt you?”

The young peasant approached smiling, and looking charming in her black cap and velvet bodice dotted all over with glittering spangles.

“What do you want, Coucou Peter?” she asked archly.

“What do I want?” said the fiddler, taking her by the chin, which was round, rosy, and smooth as a peach: “what do I want? Ah! if I were only still twenty! If we were only twenty, papa Mathéus!”

He placed his hand on his stomach, and sighed as if his heart were bursting.

Grédel drooped her eyes, and murmured, in a timid voice—

“You’re laughing at me, Coucou Peter—I know you are—you’re laughing at me!”

“Laughing! laughing!—say rather crying, my pretty Grédel. Ah! if I were still only twenty, as I said before, then indeed I would laugh, Grédel!”

For a moment he remained silent, with a melancholy air: then he turned towards Mathéus, who was blushing up to his eyes, and cried—

“That reminds me, Doctor Frantz—where the deuce are you off to so early in the morning? You must have started at daybreak to be over here before noon.”

“I am going to preach my doctrine,” replied Mathéus, in an ingenuous and natural tone.

“Your doctrine!” cried Coucou Peter, opening his big eyes; “your doctrine!”

For a few seconds he remained wondering; but presently, bursting into a roar of laughter, he cried—

“Ha! ha! ha! that’s a good joke—a good joke! Ha! ha! ha! Doctor Frantz, I should never have thought you were so funny!”

“What do you find to laugh at? Have not I told you a hundred times at Graufthal that I should start sooner or later? It all seems to me perfectly natural.”

“But you’re not going about like that?”

“Certainly I am.”

“You are going to announce your peregrination of souls, your transformation of plants into animals, and animals into men?”

“Yes, with many other not less remarkable things which I have not had time to tell you of.”

“But, I say, you’ve put some money in your pocket, at all events? That’s a very important article in preaching.”

“I!” cried Mathéus, carried away by a noble pride; “I have not brought with me a liard—not a kreutzer! When one is possessed of the truth, one is always rich enough.”

“One is always rich enough!” repeated the fiddler; “that’s a good idea! a capital idea!”

The peasants gathered about them, and without understanding this scene, saw plainly by Coucou Peter’s face that something extraordinary was passing.

Suddenly the fiddler began to dance, waved his hat gaily, and exclaimed—

“I’m in with it! It’ll just suit me!” Then, turning to the crowd, astonished at his strange antics, he cried—“Look well at me, you there! I’m the prophet Coucou Peter! Ha! ha! ha! you don’t in the least understand the meaning of it? Nor more do I! This is my master; we’re going to preach through the universe! I shall march in front! crin-crin! crin-crin! crin-crin! A crowd assembles—we announce the peregrination of souls—the public feels flattered and—off we go! We eat well, drink well—sleep here, gad there—and off, and off, and off we go!”

He leaped, he laughed, he wriggled, in short, as if the deuce were in him.

“Papa Mathéus,” he cried, “I’m with you—I’ll never leave you any more!”

The illustrious Doctor could not believe that he was in earnest, but he was no longer left in doubt when he saw Coucou Peter mount upon his barrel and cry in a loud voice—

“This is to let you know that, instead of flying away to heaven as in the olden times, the souls of men and women return into the bodies of animals, and those of animals into plants, trees, and vegetables, according to their conduct; and that, instead of coming into the world by means of Adam and Eve, as many people say, we have first been cabbages, radishes, fishes, or other one or two legged animals—which is much simpler and easier to be believed. It is the illustrious Dr. Frantz Mathéus, my master, who has discovered these things, and you will oblige us by so informing your friends and acquaintances.”

With that, Coucou Peter came down from his barrel, waved his hat, and gravely placed himself beside Mathéus, crying, “Master, I abandon all to follow you!”

Mathéus, softened by the white wine he had drunk, shed gentle tears.

“Coucou Peter,” he cried, “I proclaim you, in the face of heaven, my first disciple! You shall be the foundation-stone of the new edifice built upon the three kingdoms of nature. Your words have found an echo in my heart; I see that you are worthy to consecrate your life to this noble cause.”

And he kissed him on both cheeks.

The peasants were all astonished at this scene; however, when they saw the fiddler putting his violin into his bag, a vague murmur arose, and, but for their respect for Frantz, they would have been very angry. The illustrious philosopher rose and said to them—

“My children, we have passed many years together; most of you I have seen grow up under my eyes; others have been my friends. You know that I have done for you all it was in my power to do; I have never spared trouble to be of service to you, nor care, nor my small fortune, the fruit of my father’s hard toil! Henceforth the universe claims me; I owe myself to humanity; let us part good friends, and think sometimes of Frantz Mathéus, who has loved you so well!”

Tears choked his utterance as he pronounced these last words, and he had to be assisted to his horse, so greatly was the good man affected.

Everybody wept, and regretted this excellent physician—the father of the poor, the consoler of the unfortunate. They watched him slowly going away, his head buried between his hands; nobody spoke a word or uttered a cry, for fear of adding to his sorrow, and all felt that they were suffering an irreparable loss.

Coucou Peter, with his hat cocked upon his ear, and his bag over his shoulder, followed the doctor, looking as proud as a cock. Now and then he turned, and seemed to say, “I laugh at all of you now! I’m a prophet!—the prophet Coucou Peter—with an off, and an off, and an off we go!”

CHAPTER V

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——”