One evening, as he was returning to the village along the bank of the Zinsel, he met one of those hawkers of bibles and almanacs who make their way even to the tops of the mountains to sell their wares. Maître Frantz had not lost the taste for worm-eaten books; he dismounted, and looked over the hawker’s stock. By the merest chance this one possessed a copy of the _Anthropo-Zoology_, which he had not been able to dispose of for fifteen years; and, seeing Mathéus regard this work with a thoroughly paternal love, he did not fail to tell him that nothing sold better than that, that everybody wanted to read this book, that no more copies were to be had, and that in consequence of this great demand the work was every day becoming more rare. Maître Frantz’s heart beat strongly, his hand trembled. “Oh, Great Demiourgos! Great Demiourgos!” he murmured to himself; “here I recognise thine infinite wisdom. Out of the mouths of the simple thou recallest the sages to their duties!” Maître Frantz returned to Graufthal in a state of extreme agitation: he went about vaguely; a crowd of incoherent ideas pressed upon his mind. Should he go and live at Gœttingen? Should he go to Prague? Ought he to reprint the _Palingenesis_ with new notes? Or ought he to apostrophise the age on its indifference to the subject of anthropo-zoology? All this tormented, distressed him; but the means appeared to him too long, and his impatience admitting of no delay, he resolved to follow the example of the old prophets—to go forth himself into the universe and preach his own doctrine. CHAPTER II. When Frantz Mathéus had formed the generous resolve of illuminating the world with his own light, a strange and undefinable calm entered into the depths of his soul. It was the eve of St. Boniface, towards six o’clock in the evening; a splendid sun lit the valley of Graufthal, and relieved the motionless branches of the tall firs against the clear sky. The good man was seated in the old arm-chair of his forefathers, near the small casement, his eyes wandering over the silent little town stretched at the foot of the misty mountains. Peasants were mowing grass on the skirt of the forest; women, old Martha herself amongst them, armed with rakes, were turning the hay and singing old country airs. The Zinsel murmured softly in its pebbly bed; a low hum filled the air; long files of ducks were taking their way up the stream, and every now and then raised their nasal cry; fowls were sleeping under the shadow of walls, on the shafts of carts and implements of labour; chubby children were romping and amusing themselves on the thresholds of cottages; and watchdogs, their muzzles between their paws, gave themselves up to the overpowering heat of the day. This calm scene insensibly touched the heart of Mathéus; silent tears stole down his venerable cheeks; he took his already grey head between his hands, and, with his elbows on the window-ledge, wept like a child.