“For you to tell me why you wanted a great deal of coffee and a great deal of milk.” “Ah!—it’s because I always put a great deal of sugar in my cup,” he replied. Everybody laughed at this answer, and Mathéus did not venture to make any objection. During breakfast, which passed gaily, the illustrious philosopher had no time to reflect on his future projects; but towards the end of the meal, remembering that the time for departure was approaching, and still not knowing where to go, the good man’s face became again very serious. Kasper Müller appeared to read to the bottom of his soul. “Doctor,” he said, “you must make me a promise.” “Ah, my dear friend, anything in my power to do for you I will do with the greatest pleasure.” “Very well; that’s understood, then. Now, listen to me. If you have to stay here longer, I beg that you will take advantage of my table and lodging.” Maître Frantz made a gesture as if about to rise, but Kasper Müller, laying a hand upon his arm, said— “Hear me out—you shall then answer me. A person more or less makes no difference in my house.” “Nor two neither,” added Coucou Peter; “where there’s enough for three there’s enough for four.” But Kasper Müller paid no attention to this remark, and went on— “I have your promise. Now, if you were to consult me on your grand projects, I should tell you frankly, that, in your place, I should return to Graufthal.” Maître Frantz looked at his host with moistened eyes, but made no reply. A great resolution was plainly struggling in his heart. “I should go to Graufthal,” repeated Kasper Müller, forcibly: “in the first place, because I should be able to do more good there than anywhere else; in the next place, because men are not worth the trouble you are taking for them; they either do not, or will not, understand you, and God can always enlighten His children when it pleases Him to do so; and, finally, because, in your place, I should think I had earned the right of resting myself.” Kasper Müller spoke in a firm tone; every word he uttered came from his heart. Maître Frantz became pale and red by turns. He hid his face between his two hands, and cried— “Do you think I have done enough for human kind?—that posterity will not reproach me?—that I have fulfilled my duty?” “Done enough! What philosopher can boast of having done as much as you?—of having fulfilled his duties like you—of having sacrificed everything for his doctrine? Come, my dear and worthy friend, shed no tears; when a man has behaved as you have, he has nothing to weep for. The evidence of your own conscience is all that you can require to sustain you.” These kind words softened Maître Frantz’s anguish; his tears fell unchecked, as if they poured from a spring; he felt vanquished by fortune, and the judicious advice of an honest man. But Coucou Peter, seeing that he was about to lose his place of Chief Rabbi, struck his fist and cried—