_Émile Erckmann, born 1822, died 1899, and Alexandre Chatrian, born 1826, died 1890, natives of Alsace-Lorraine, formed a literary partnership in 1847 and wrote many charming novels and plays, such as “The Famous Doctor Mathéus,” followed by “L’ami Fritz” (the source of Mascagni’s opera of the same name). All these, appearing under the signature of Erckmann-Chatrian, were supposed to be the productions of a single writer until 1863, when the collaboration was announced. It is said that their first stories were rejected by all the newspapers of Paris. This combined authorship has produced a style noted for its familiar, picturesque simplicity, its candor and hearty good-fellowship, and its democratic feeling. They have been accused of warring against war and thus weakening patriotism, but it is only against those wars raised by despots in endeavoring to choke the development of political liberty._ [Illustration] THE DEAN’S WATCH BY ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN Translated by Ralph Browning Fiske. Copyright, 1897, by The Current Literature Publishing Company. I On the day before Christmas of the year 1832, my friend Wilfred, with his double-bass slung over his back, and I, with my violin under my arm, started to walk from the Black Forest to Heidelberg. It was unusually snowy weather; as far as we could see across the great, deserted plain, there was no trace of road nor path. The wind kept up its harsh aria with monotonous persistency, and Wilfred, with his flattened wallet at his belt, and the vizor of his cap drawn over his eyes, moved on before me, straddling the drifts with his long, heron legs, and whistling a gay tune to keep up his spirits. Now and then, he would turn around with a waggish smile, and cry: “Comrade, let’s have the waltz from ‘Robin,’ I feel like dancing.” A burst of laughter followed these words, and then the good fellow would resume his march courageously. I followed on as well as I could, up to my knees in snow, and I felt a sense of melancholy take possession of me. The spires of Heidelberg began to appear on the extreme horizon, and we hoped to reach there before nightfall. It was then about five o’clock in the afternoon, and great flakes of snow were whirling through the gray atmosphere. Suddenly we heard the sound of a horse approaching from behind us. When the rider was within twenty yards of us, he moderated his speed, studying us meanwhile with a sidelong glance. We returned his gaze. Picture to yourself a large man, with reddish hair and beard, in a three-cornered hat and loose fox-skin pelisse; his arms buried to the elbows in fur gloves. He carried a handsome valise behind him, resting on the haunches of his powerful stallion. He was evidently some alderman or burgomaster or personage of like importance.