“Aha, Maître Frantz!” he said; “you’re just in time; I was off without you. Our peregrination of souls doesn’t appear to take in this village.” “Let us hasten away from this place,” cried Mathéus, not knowing which way to turn. “Yes, I think that’s the best thing to be done; these beggars of peasants are not up to our level. Get up behind me, for there’s an end of our business here.” At the same time he mounted on horseback, and the illustrious doctor clambered up behind him with marvellous dexterity. Coucou Peter at once drew the bar, threw open the door, and dashed out like one riding for his life. A terrible clamour rose on all sides of them, and Mathéus immediately received three painful cudgel-blows, Coucou-Peter calling out at each blow— “Ah! ah! another psychological lesson!” But the illustrious philosopher said nothing; he closed his eyes and clung to his disciple so tightly that the fiddler could hardly breathe. Dame Catherina, standing on her doorstep, her eggs in a basin, uttered plaintive cries as she watched these proceedings, despairing of her dear doctor’s safety. But when she saw his horse going off at full gallop through the midst of the hooting and yelling crowd, the good woman pressed her hand upon her tender heart, dried her eyes with the border of her apron, and returned to the kitchen heaving a deep sigh. “Poor, dear man!” she murmured; “may Heaven conduct him!” CHAPTER VIII. After galloping for a full half-hour, Frantz Mathéus, hearing nothing but the beating of his horse’s hoofs on the road, and the song of the birds in the free air, ventured to open first one eye, then the other; and seeing himself in the midst of a thick forest, far from the cudgels and sophistical minds of the worthy country-folks, breathed like one who has been cut down after having been hanged. Coucou Peter, on his side, slackened Bruno’s pace, and felt his own ribs to make sure they were still intact. When he had thoroughly convinced himself that all was in its place, he turned towards the village, which was still to be seen through the trees, and extending his hands with an imploring air, cried— “Peasants of Oberbronn, the prophet Coucou Peter curses you!” “No, no—do not curse them,” murmured the good doctor, in a tone of supplication; “do not curse them. Alas! the unfortunates know not what they do.” “So much the worse for them,” replied the fiddler, out of temper. “I curse them to the third and fourth generation! Ah, you beggar, Tapihans! you beggar, Spengler! I curse you both! I despise you like the dust of my shoes!” This said, he turned in the saddle and rode on. Bruno was slowly following the path to Eschenbach. The sun heated the sandy ground; thousands of insects danced about the furze-bushes, and their vague buzzing was the only sound that met the ear. This immense calm of nature insensibly affected Mathéus; he gently bowed his head, covered his face, and burst into tears.