“Strange!” murmured Mathéus, “that these gallinaceous animals, usually so timid, are sometimes animated by the most ferocious instincts! What cannot the furious and sanguinary passion of jealousy do!” Mother Windling, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, thought: “Poor dear man, you are thinking of Tapihans! But you have nothing to fear. No, no! the fellow is too much of a coward ever to come to the house again.” At last, emptying her apron, and looking at Mathéus with a tender smile, she asked— “Are you fond of eggs, Doctor?” “Very, my dear madam—most of all when boiled in the shell; they are then a wholesome and delicate food.” “Then we’ll go at once and pick them up; there are sure to be enough for your breakfast.” Without the least ceremony or hesitation she climbed up the ladder, and though the illustrious philosopher had rapidly turned his head, he could not avoid seeing the plump widow’s blue stockings, through which her sturdy calves were very vigorously indicated. Dame Catherina slipped into the fowl-loft through a door under the pent roof, and reappeared radiant with satisfaction, bringing with her a dozen eggs, which she displayed triumphantly. “See here!” she cried, standing at the top of the ladder; “well, I’ve every day as many. What eggs!—not a hen in the village lays such beauties! Help me, Doctor—I daren’t come down alone.” The good man was obliged to steady the foot of the ladder and lend his hands to Dame Catherina, who laughed, pretended to be afraid, and all the time seemed quite at her ease. Mathéus was as red as a raspberry. “Thanks, Doctor,” she said. “I’m sure the white hen has laid behind the woodstack. I could see, from up there, an egg lying on some bits of straw. We must send Nickel to get it.” She took the Doctor’s arm, and in this manner they entered the house. When Dame Catherina and Mathéus appeared in the kitchen, Coucou Peter, seated on a stool before the hearth, was blowing with all his might through a long iron tube, to make the fire burn; the coals flamed, the vine shoots crackled, water was bubbling in the boiler, a magnificent cutlet was frizzling on the gridiron, and spreading around a most agreeable odour. Mother Windling paused on the threshold, and cried— “You rascally Coucou Peter! I’d like to know where you got that cutlet from?” Without in the least disturbing himself, Coucou Peter indicated the large oak cupboard. “He’s like a cat, he sees everything! But I thought I’d put the key in my pocket.” “Who wants your key?” replied the fiddler, quite gravely. “I don’t; with a bit of straw I can open all the locks in the world.” “Ah, the rogue!” cried the good woman, laughing, “he’ll end with the galleys!” Mathéus would have remonstrated with his disciple, but Coucou Peter interrupted him. “Maître Frantz,” he said, “I’m fond of cutlets—it’s not contrary to the system to be fond of cutlets; all that is not forbidden is permitted; isn’t it so, Dame Catherina?”