They were discussing the matter in this manner, and Dame Thérèse would have given way perhaps, when the church-bells began to ring, and it was no longer to be thought of. “Thérèse,” said Hans Aden, “there’s the third stroke; let us get back to the public-house, or we shall be late.” “No need for that, Monsieur Mayor,” replied Coucou Peter; “you can go from here. I’ll take Schimel back, and we’ll wait dinner for you.—You’ll do us the favour to accept dinner, Maître Hans Aden and Dame Thérèse?” Hans Aden thought Monsieur Coucou Peter a very good fellow, and Dame Thérèse took from Schimel’s pannier the shawl he had bought for her; she put it on, and as she did so she cast a tender look at the good fiddler, who felt the tears come into his eyes. She then took up her child, from which she would not part company, especially as the benediction of St. Florent could do it nothing but good, and, all being arranged, the party separated in front of the church. Coucou Peter took the lower road, so as not to meet the faithful in the Rue du Tonnelet Rouge. Mathéus gravely followed him, allowing his eyes to wander, and recapitulating his invincible proofs. The pealing of the bells shook the air; the bright sun, casting its rays upon the moving crowd, all astonished the good man; and the hope of shortly preaching made him see everything from an agreeable point of view. They were passing along by gardens on the slope of the hill; from time to time they heard the report of a gun, and saw puffs of smoke rolling in the air; the noise of the crowd died away insensibly, and fresh grass replaced the dust of the streets. Turning round by the fountain where the cattle of the town were brought to drink, he saw sportsmen, gamekeepers in green dresses, and a good number of peasants contesting for the prize of a sheep. The target was placed on the opposite side of the hill in front of a large oak; shooters standing behind garden rails tried their guns, put the locks on full-cock, shook their heads; some betted, others threw themselves into attitudes as though they were playing at skittles; and each thought himself cleverer than the one who missed his mark. Frantz Mathéus, whom the sound of a gun always made tremble, hurried by into Acacia Lane, the solitude of which, after so many tumultuous scenes, had a strange charm. All the inhabitants of Haslach were at church. At the last sound of the church-bells the firing was repeated; the prelude of the organ was heard from a distance. Maître Frantz and his disciple turned into the Rue du Tonnelet Rouge in front of the Three Roses. CHAPTER XII.