Registrator Heerbrand had his blue handkerchief tied
about his head; he looked quite pale and melancholic, and moaned out:
"Ah, worthy Conrector, not the punch which Mam'sell Veronica most
admirably brewed, no! but simply that cursed student is to blame for
all the mischief. Do you not observe that he has long been _mente
caphis_? And are you not aware that madness is infectious? One fool
makes twenty; pardon me, it is an old proverb; especially when you
have drunk a glass or two, you fall into madness quite readily, and
then involuntarily you manoeuvre, and go through your exercise, just
as the crack-brained fugleman makes the motion. Would you believe it,
Conrector? I am still giddy when I think of that gray Parrot!"
"Gray fiddlesticks!" interrupted the Conrector; "it was nothing but
Archivarius Lindhorst's little old Famulus, who had thrown a gray
cloak over him and was seeking the student Anselmus."
"It may be," answered Registrator Heerbrand, "but, I must confess, I
am quite downcast in spirit; the whole night through there was such a
piping and organing."
"That was I," said the Conrector, "for I snore loud."
"Well, maybe," answered the Registrator; "but Conrector, Conrector!
Ah, not without cause did I wish to raise some cheerfulness among
us last night--But that Anselmus has spoiled all! You know not--O
Conrector, Conrector!" And with this, Registrator Heerbrand started
up, plucked the cloth from his head, embraced the Conrector, warmly
pressed his hand, and again cried, in quite heart-breaking tones: "O
Conrector, Conrector!" and, snatching his hat and staff, rushed out of
doors.
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