“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——” He went on wiping the glasses dry. “Tell me, Dame Catherina, does the miller Tapihans still come to see you?” “Tapihans!” cried Mother Windling; “don’t speak of him to me! I laugh at him; he wants to marry my house, my garden, my five-and-twenty acres of meadow-land, the shabby fellow!” “Take my word for it, he’s not at all the sort of man you want,” replied the fiddler; “the sort of man to suit you is——” Fat Soffayel came up the cellar-stairs at the moment, and Dame Catherina appeared beaming.