“I suppose so; anyhow, you’ve always the last word! Now get out of the way, and let me boil the eggs. If the Doctor will go into the best room, I’ll soon be with him; time to say a Pater, and all will be ready. You, Coucou Peter, go and water the Doctor’s horse: Nickel has gone this morning to turn the water on to the large meadow.” “With pleasure, mother; with pleasure.” The fiddler went out, and the illustrious philosopher entered the best room. Never had Frantz Mathéus felt more calm, more happy, more content with himself and nature. The open air had developed his appetite; he heard the fire crackling on the hearth, the cat purring under the table, and Dame Catherina sweeping the front of her door, while humming Karl Ritter’s old refrain— “Love me, and I’ll love you! I’ll love you! I’ll love you!” Now he contemplated the ancient Nuremburg clock, all yellow and worm-eaten, with its china face painted with brilliant flowers, and its wooden cuckoo that chanted the hours, and the illustrious philosopher never tired of admiring its ingenious mechanism; now he stopped before an open window, and gazed tenderly out upon the little Place of Oberbronn. There, about the green trough into which a stream of clear water flowed from a moss-grown spout, were gathered the young girls of the village, in short petticoats, and bare armed and legged. They were beating their linen, bawling, calling to one another, and noisily chatting; and the good man smiled at their unsophisticated manners and graceful attitudes. Bruno was drinking at the trough, and every now and then turned his head as if to salute Mathéus. Coucou Peter smacked his whip and said soft nothings to the blooming laundresses, who made fun of his fine speeches; but when—no doubt out of revenge—he wanted to kiss the prettiest of the band, there arose an incredible tumult of screams and laughter; the whole of them fell upon him and thumped him with their beetles and wet linen. In spite of this violent attack, the impudent fellow did not let the girl go: he kissed her on the throat, on the nape of her neck, on her cheeks, crying joyously— “Oh, how good it is! beat away! beat away! I laugh at it! I like it!” Everybody came to the windows and laughed at what was going on; the old women squalled, the dogs barked, and Coucou Peter—red, moist, and out of breath—repeated— “One more little kiss, for love of the peregrination of souls.” “Ah, the rogue!” said Mathéus; “what an odd disciple I have there!” At length, seeing the peasants with their sticks running towards the place, Coucou Peter mounted Bruno in haste, leaped over the watertrough, and rode into the stable, crying— “How pretty the girls of Oberbronn are! They’re as sweet in the mouth as cherries, and as crisp as filberts!” Then he tried to fasten the door, for the peasant lads were furious.