“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—