Nine o’clock was striking at the Cathedral when Frantz Mathéus and his disciple stopped in front of the Heron brewery. The great yard, shaded by lime-trees, was full of company; a troop of gipsies accompanied the tumult with their wild music. Kasper Müller, the brewer, in his shirt-sleeves, went from table to table, shaking hands and interchanging jocular greetings with the drinkers; and all these figures, grave and comic, hidden in the shade, or distinctly seen in the uncertain light, presented a truly strange spectacle. The illustrious philosopher, however, instead of giving himself up to his habitual reflections on the affinities of races, looked on all with a dull eye. It might have been said, to see him with outstretched neck and dangling legs, that he despaired of the doctrine, and of the future of the generations to come. “Come, Maître Frantz,” said Coucou Peter to him, “courage! Go into your friend Georges Müller’s house; he can’t fail to recognise you—then, hurrah! If we can only find a lodging for to-night, to-morrow we’ll convert the world!” Mathéus obeyed mechanically; he alighted, buttoned his brown greatcoat, and advanced with trembling steps into the yard, casting undecided glances at all the groups, and not knowing whom to address. Presently Kasper Müller perceived him wandering under the roofs like a troubled spirit; the good man’s face, stamped with sadness, interested him greatly. He came forward to meet him, and inquired what he needed. “Monsieur,” replied Mathéus, with a low bow, “will you have the kindness to tell me where I can find Georges Müller?” “Georges Müller? He’s been dead these fifteen years!” “Good heavens! Is it possible to be more unfortunate than I am?” cried the good man, in a choking voice. He bowed again, and was moving towards the gate; but the brewer, touched by the sadness of this exclamation, detained him, and taking him aside, said, kindly— “Excuse me, monsieur; you appear to be in some pressing need. Can I not render you the service you expected of Georges Müller?” “It is true,” replied Mathéus, his eyes filling with tears, “I am in pressing want. I came to ask a lodging for the night of Georges Müller, one of my oldest and dearest acquaintances. Though I have not seen him for five-and-thirty years—the time at which I finished my studies—I am sure his heart had not changed, and that he would have given me a welcome.” “I have no doubt of it—I have no doubt of it,” replied the brewer; “and I, his son, will not refuse it to you, be sure of it.” “You the son of Georges Müller!” cried Mathéus. “You must be little Kasper, then, whom I have so often rocked on my knees! Ah! my dear child, how happy I am to see you again! I should not have recognised you, with those big whiskers and that great ruddy face!”