The good apostle said that because he had left his wife at Saverne, to say nothing of numerous debts to the brewers and publicans in general throughout the town; but the illustrious Doctor listened to none of these objections. “Gendarmes are made for thieves,” he said, “and not for philosophers; let us go forward, Coucou Peter, let us go forward; every moment of our existence belongs to human kind.” They passed down the silent street of Tieffenbach; most of the inhabitants were away at the fair of Haslach, and the small houses with their closed doors, their little gardens surrounded with disjointed palings, and their solitary moss-grown wells, had a melancholy look, very different from holiday gaiety and animation. Coucou Peter appeared thoughtful. “Tell me, Maître Frantz,” he said, “can rabbis marry?” “Undoubtedly, my friend; it is a duty even, imposed on them by Moses, for the propagation of the species.” “Yes; but the Chief Rabbi of the Peregrination of Souls?” “Why not? Marriage is in the order of nature; I see nothing objectionable in it.” Coucou Peter immediately appeared in better spirits. “Doctor,” he said, “we were wrong to worry ourselves. The first thing we will do on reaching Saverne is to go to my wife; she must have saved something during five months.” “Your wife!” “Eh!—yes; my wife, Gredel Baltzen, married to Coucou Peter before the mayor and pastor of the town.” “You never told me that.” “Because you never asked me about it.” “And you don’t live together?” “No; she’s too thin—I like fat women—I can’t help it—it was born in me.” “But then, why did you marry her?” “I hadn’t then come to know my own taste; I was at the age of innocence, and this girl wheedled me. At last—this is how it was; seeing her every day growing thinner and thinner, I said to myself, Coucou Peter, you’re not of the same race, you’ll make a bad mixture; you’ll do better to take yourself off. So I took what there was in the cupboard and went off. Conscience before everything; it would have been too painful to have become the parent of skinny children; I sacrificed myself.” This avowal surprised the illustrious philosopher; but he was touched by the delicacy of his disciple, and more than all by his admirable anthropo-zoological sentiments. “My friend,” he said, “I cannot but approve the motive of your conduct. If, however, your wife was unhappy——”