“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.