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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.