Speaking in this manner, he filled the glasses, and drank the illustrious philosopher’s health. But Frantz Mathéus was too deeply affected to be so quickly consoled; in spite of the excellence of the wolxheim, in spite of the kind speeches of his host, and of Coucou Peter’s encouragements, his soul remained oppressed by an undefined sadness. It was not until later, when Kasper Müller led the conversation on to the subject of the good old times, that he appeared to recover himself. With what delight the excellent old man retraced the physiognomies of the past, the simplicity of manners, the affectionate cordiality of the old inhabitants of Strasbourg, the simple and patriarchal family life! It became evident that all his affections, his whole soul, his whole heart, took refuge in that far-distant past. Coucou Peter, with his elbow resting on the table, gravely smoked his pipe; Kasper Müller smiled at the good man’s recitals; and Charlotte, seated behind the stove, fell asleep in spite of herself—her head bowing slowly, slowly, and then, at intervals, recovering itself with a jerk. It was nearly one o’clock when Kasper Müller took leave of his guest, and Charlotte, half asleep, conducted Coucou Peter to a neighbouring chamber, and was able to get to rest after her fatigues. Left alone, Maître Frantz raised the curtain of his window, and for some minutes contemplated the deserted and silent streets of the city. The lamps were going out—the moon cast her pale light on the chimneys; an indescribable feeling of lonesomeness and sadness came upon his soul; he felt as if he were alone in the world! At length he went to bed, murmuring a prayer, and, having fallen asleep, the fair valley of Graufthal was brought back to him: he heard the rustling of the foliage, and the blackbird singing in the shady alleys of the pines. It was a beautiful dream! CHAPTER XXII. The cries of the vegetable-sellers woke Frantz Mathéus at an early hour. The city was still covered with the Rhine mists, and heavy vehicles were rumbling over the pavements. What a difference from his little village of Graufthal, so calm, so peaceful in its valley of pines!—where the vague murmur of the foliage, the carolling of the birds, and the merry chatting of neighbours on the thresholds of their little cottages, hardly disturbed its matutinal repose! How the least sighs, the smallest sounds, made themselves distinctly heard there, in the midst of the silence! How sweet it was to dream of the Great Demiourgos until good old Martha brought him his slippers!