“In the stable; you’ve no need to take him. Dame Thérèse is going to buy all sorts of things; but for that, we should leave Schimel also.” These explanations were enough for Mathéus; and they all set forth. The whole town was filled with people; the waggons and cattle had been cleared away by order of the mayor. Garlands were hung from the windows, leaves and flowers were scattered in the streets, and in the market-place rose a superb altar; but what more than anything pleased the illustrious philosopher was the pleasant scent of moss and fresh-gathered flowers, and the garlands waving in the air at every movement of the breeze. He admired also the young peasant-girls with their head-dresses and bodies dotted with glittering spangles; the old women, who were decorating the altar with vases and candlesticks, were still more magnificent, for they wore the old costume of yellow or violet flowered silk and gold-brocaded coif, the richest costume ever seen. “Maître Frantz,” said Coucou Peter, “they worked better in the olden times. I recollect that my grandmother had a dress that had belonged to _her_ grandmother, and that was still new; nowadays everything becomes old in four or five years.” “Except truth, my friend. Truth is always young: what Pythagoras said two thousand years ago is as true as if he had said it yesterday.” “Yes, it’s like old violins,” replied Coucou Peter; “the more you play upon them the better they sound, until they get cracked; they can be mended, but by going on putting in new pieces, nothing of the old fiddle is left, and the music becomes poor.” Chattering in this way, our good folks arrived at the fair. The crowd was already great: a thousand confused sounds, of whistles, fifes, and children’s trumpets, rang in the ears; the wooden stalls exhibited in the open air their hardwares, wooden swords, dolls, looking-glasses, and Nuremberg clocks; the voices of sellers calling their wares drowned one another. Coucou Peter would have liked to have made a present to Dame Thérèse; he fumbled ceaselessly in his empty pockets, thinking by what means he could get some money. For a moment he had an idea of going back to the public-house and selling Bruno’s saddle and bridle to the first Jew who happened to pass; but Hans Aden having remained behind, another inspiration came into his head. “Maître Frantz,” he said, “take hold of Schimel’s bridle; I’ll be back directly.” He then hurried to Hans Aden, and said to him— “Monsieur Mayor, I have forgotten my purse at the public-house, for my illustrious master and I have our money in Bruno’s saddle; lend me ten francs; I’ll return them to you by-and-by.” “With pleasure,” said Hans Aden, pulling a somewhat wry face—“with pleasure;” and he gave him ten francs. Coucou Peter, now as proud as a cock, took Dame Thérèse under his arm, and led her to the handsomest stall.