The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK ®. Emile Erckmann

guests drank the rich Rikevir wine, so highly esteemed by Yeri Foerster, and which seemed to him to have arrived so opportunely for the feast.

      Mr. Zacharias Seiler was not present that day at the wedding, being ill at home. Since then he rarely goes fishing—and then, always to the Brünnen—toward the lake—on the other side of the mountain.

      THE DEAN’S WATCH

      Translated by Ralph Browning Fiske

      CHAPTER I

      On the day before Christmas of the year 1832, my friend Wilfred, with his double-bass slung over his back, and I, with my violin under my arm, started to walk from the Black Forest to Heidelberg. It was unusually snowy weather; as far as we could see across the great, deserted plain, there was no trace of road nor path. The wind kept up its harsh aria with monotonous persistency, and Wilfred, with his flattened wallet at his belt, and the vizor of his cap drawn over his eyes, moved on before me, straddling the drifts with his long, heron legs, and whistling a gay tune to keep up his spirits. Now and then, he would turn around with a waggish smile, and cry: “Comrade, let’s have the waltz from ‘Robin,’ I feel like dancing.” A burst of laughter followed these words, and then the good fellow would resume his march courageously. I followed on as well as I could, up to my knees in snow, and I felt a sense of melancholy take possession of me.

      The spires of Heidelberg began to appear on the extreme horizon, and we hoped to reach there before nightfall. It was then about five o’clock in the afternoon, and great flakes of snow were whirling through the gray atmosphere. Suddenly we heard the sound of a horse approaching from behind us. When the rider was within twenty yards of us, he moderated his speed, studying us meanwhile with a sidelong glance. We returned his gaze.

      Picture to yourself a large man, with reddish hair and beard, in a three-cornered hat and loose fox-skin pelisse; his arms buried to the elbows in fur gloves. He carried a handsome valise behind him, resting on the haunches of his powerful stallion. He was evidently some alderman or burgomaster or personage of like importance.

      “Ho! Ho! my good fellows!” he cried; “you are on your way to Heidelberg to perform, I see.”

      Wilfred surveyed the traveler from the corner of his eye, and replied briefly: “Is that of any interest to you, sir?”

      “Yes, for in that case I wish to give you a bit of advice.”

      “Advice?”

      “Precisely; if you wish it.”

      Wilfred started on without replying. I noticed that the traveler’s appearance was like that of an enormous cat; his ears wide apart, his eyelids half closed, with a bristling mustache, and a fatherly, almost caressing manner.

      “My friend,” he continued, addressing himself to me, “frankly, you will do well to retrace your steps.”

      “Why so, sir?”

      “The great Maestro Pimenti has just now announced a concert to take place at Heidelberg on Christmas day. The entire city will be there, and you will not earn a kreutzer.”

      At this point, Wilfred turned around ill-humoredly: “We care not a sou for your Maestro nor all the Pimentis in Christendom,” he said; “look at this young fellow here, without even the sign of a beard on his chin! He has never yet played outside of the ale-houses of the Black Forest, for the woodcutters and charcoal-women to dance; and yet this boy, with his long yellow curls and big blue eyes, defies all your Italian impostors. His left hand is possessed of inimitable melody, grace, and suppleness, and his right of a power to draw the bow, that the Almighty rarely accords us mortals.”

      “Oh! ho! Indeed!” returned the other. “It is just as I tell you,” Wilfred replied, and he resumed his pace, blowing on his fingers that were red with the cold, I saw that he was ridiculing the horseman, who continued to follow us at an easy trot. We continued thus for a full half mile in silence. Suddenly the stranger said to us abruptly: “Whatever skill you may possess, go back to the Black Forest; we have vagabonds enough in Heidelberg without you to increase the number. I give you good advice, particularly under the existing circumstances; you will do well to profit by it.”

      Wilfred, now thoroughly out of patience, was about to reply, but the traveler, urging his horse into a gallop, had already crossed the broad Avenue d’Electeur. An immense flock of crows flew up from the plain and seemed to be following him, filling the heavens with their cawing. We reached Heidelberg at about seven o’clock, and we did indeed see Pimenti’s magnificent posters on all the walls of the city, which read: “Grand Concert Solo.”

      That same evening in visiting the various inns, we met many old comrades from the Black Forest, who engaged us to play in their troupe. There was old Bremer, the ‘cellist, his two sons, Ludwig and Karl, both good second violins; Heinrich Siebel, the clarionet player, and Bertha with her harp; Wilfred with his double-bass and I with my violin made up the number. We agreed to travel together after the Christmas concert and divide the proceeds among us. Wilfred had already hired a room for us both on the sixth floor of the Pied de Mouton Tavern, which stood halfway down the Holdergasse, and for it he was to pay four kreutzers a day. Properly speaking, it was nothing but a garret, but fortunately there was a stove in it, and we lighted a fire to dry ourselves.

      As we were comfortably seated, toasting chestnuts over the fire and enjoying a jug of wine, little Annette, the housemaid, appeared in a black calico dress and velvet turban, with rosy cheeks and lips like a cluster of cherries. She came running up the stairs, gave a hasty knock and threw herself joyfully into my arms. I had known the pretty little girl for a long time; we were of the same village, and if truth must be told, her sparkling eyes and frolicsome ways had quite won my heart. “I came up to have a little talk with you,” she said, dropping into a chair. “I saw you come up a moment ago and here I am.”

      She began to chatter away, asking for this one or that one of the village and hardly giving me time to reply. Every now and then she would pause and look at me with the greatest tenderness. We might have continued thus until the next morning had not Dame Grédel Dick begun to call from the foot of the stairs: “Annette! Annette! Are you never coming?”

      “Right away, ma’am!” answered the poor child reluctantly. She tapped me lightly on the cheek and ran toward the door; but just as she was crossing the threshold, she suddenly stopped. “By the way,” she cried, “I was forgetting to tell you; but perhaps you have heard about it?”

      “About what?”

      “The death of our precentor, Zahn.”

      “But how does that, affect us?”

      “To be sure; only see that your passport is all right Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock they will come to examine it. Everybody is being arrested in the last fortnight. The precentor was assassinated last night in the library of Saint Christopher’s Chapel, and only a week ago, old Ulmet Elias, the sacrificer, was similarly murdered in the Rue des Juifs. Some days before that Christina Haas, the old midwife, was also killed, as well as the agate dealer Seligmann of the Rue Durlach. So look out for yourself, dear Kasper, and see that your passport is all right.”

      While she was speaking, Dame Grédel’s voice came again from below: “Annette! will you come here? The good-for-nothing child, leaving me to do all the work!”

      And the sound of men’s voices calling for wine, beer, ham, or sausages mingled with her own. Further delay was out of the question. Annette hastened down the stairs, crying as she went: “Goodness, ma’am! what has happened? One would think that the house were afire!” Wilfred crossed the room and closed the door behind her; then returning to his chair, we looked at each other, not without a feeling of apprehension.

      “That is singular news,” he said; “your passport is all right, I suppose?”

      “Certainly,” And I produced my papers.

      “Good! Mine is too, for I had it made out just before leaving. But nevertheless, these murders do not augur us any good. I am afraid we shall not be able to do much business here; many of the families will be in mourning; and then,