They were in front of the public-house, the crowd whirling around them. They saw the drinkers go up and down the steps unsteadily; glasses jingled, cans clashed; voices called for beer, sourcrout, sausages; the servant-girls, whom the guests chucked under the chin as they passed, uttered laughing little cries; Mother Jacob clattered the plates and dishes, and Daddy Jacob turned the tap in the cellar. Coucou Peter entered the public-house, promising soon to return. Indeed, at the end of a few seconds, he came back with Maître Jacob himself, a hale man with jovial face and shirt-sleeves turned up to his elbows. “My poor fellow,” he said, “nothing would please me better than to be of service to you. But every room is taken; I’ve nothing left but the barn and the shed; see if either of those will suit you.” Coucou Peter looked at little Thérèse with an air of distress, and then at the crowded street. “If it were only for myself, Maître Jacob, I’d accept it at once; a poor devil of a fiddler is used to sleeping on straw. But just look at this good little mother, at this poor child, and at this good Doctor Mathéus, the cream of philosophers!” cried he, in a heartrending tone of voice. “Come, Daddy Jacob—put yourself in the place of these people!” “What can I do, Coucou Peter?” replied the publican. “With all the goodwill in the world, I can’t empty my rooms; I can’t offer you——” “Ah, Monsieur Coucou Peter, don’t give yourself so much trouble on our account,” then said Dame Thérèse; “we are not so hard to please as you think.” “You accept the shed, Dame Thérèse?” “Why not?” she cried, smiling; “many others would be glad to find a shelter in the midst of this tumult—wouldn’t they, Hans Aden?” Coucou Peter, delighted at hearing her say this, cared nothing for what tall Hans Aden might answer; as soon as Dame Thérèse had accepted the shed, he hurried down the garden in search of dry wood. “Thanks, Daddy Jacob!” he cried. “Take care not to set fire to the barn,” said the landlord. “Don’t be afraid, Daddy Jacob—don’t be afraid!” The night was dark; in a very little time a bright and pleasant fire lighted up the beams and tiles of the outhouse. Ah! it was not the handsome bedchamber at Oberbronn, with its two chests of drawers and good feather-bed, into which one sank up to the ears. The black beams showed from floor to floor to the summit of the roof; and on the side of the street, four oaken posts sheltered you from the wind. No St. Quirin looking-glasses were to be seen there, but stable-doors along the wall; and from the far end of the shed, pigs, raising with their snouts the planks of their sty, wished you “Good evening.” Maître Mathéus reminded himself, with satisfaction, that other prophets before him had inhabited like places. “Virtue,” he said, gravely, “lives under the thatched roof. Let us rejoice, my friends, that we do not dwell in palaces.”