“‘Truth to say, this is extraordinary!’ cried the burgomaster; ’the devil’s to pay.’  Well, the chamber was much visited; the walls were replastered, and the dead man was sent to Neustadt.

“The registrar wrote this marginal note: 

“‘Died of apoplexy.’

“All Nuremberg was enraged against the innkeeper.  There were many, indeed, who wished to force him to take down his iron crossbeam, under the pretext that it inspired people with dangerous ideas; but you may well believe that old Michael Schmidt would not lend his ear to this proposition.

“‘This crossbeam,’ said he, ’was placed here by my grandfather; it has borne the sign of Boeuf-Gras for one hundred and fifty years, from father to son; it harms no one, not even the hay wagons which pass beneath, for it is thirty feet above them.  Those who don’t like it can turn their heads aside, and not see it.’

“Well, gradually the town calmed down, and, during several months, no new event agitated it.  Unhappily, a student of Heidelberg, returning to the university, stopped, day before yesterday, at the Inn Boeuf-Gras, and asked for lodging.  He was the son of a minister of the gospel.

“How could anyone suppose that the son of a pastor could conceive the idea of hanging himself on the crossbeam of a signboard, because a big monsieur and an old soldier had done so?  We must admit, Master Christian, that the thing was not probable; these reasons would not have seemed sufficient to myself or to you.”

“Enough, enough!” I exclaimed; “this is too horrible!  I see a frightful mystery involved in all this.  It is not the crossbeam; it is not the room—­”

“What!  Do you suspect the innkeeper, the most honest man in the world, and belonging to one of the oldest families in Nuremberg?”

“No, no; may God preserve me from indulging in unjust suspicions! but there is an abyss before me, into which I scarcely dare glance.”

“You are right,” said Toubac, astonished at the violence of my excitement.  “We will speak of other things.  Apropos, Master Christian, where is our landscape of ’Saint Odille’?”

This question brought me back to the world of realities.  I showed the old man the painting I had just completed.  The affair was soon concluded, and Toubac, well satisfied, descended the ladder, entreating me to think no more of the student of Heidelberg.

I would gladly have followed my good friend’s counsel; but, when the devil once mixes himself up in our concerns, it is not easy to disembarrass ourselves of him.

In my solitary hours all these events were reproduced with frightful distinctness in my mind.