After dinner Balt said, "Now, wife, get in a cup of coffee."

"None for me, I thank you," said the geometer.

The tailor's wife was not so ill-mannered as to press the refreshment

upon her guest against his will, for she grudged her husband his share

of it. She afterward boiled a cup for herself, and toasted a biscuit to

eat with it.

When the afternoon church was over, Crescence could not avoid taking a

walk with the geometer; but she managed to keep clear of the street and

go along the back fences of the gardens. When they approached George's

ninepin-alley, she started with fright on seeing Florian standing there

in his shirt-sleeves with his back to the road. Throwing a piece of

money on the ground, he said, "'Bet you six creutzers I'll make five."

Under the pretext of having forgotten something, Crescence turned round

quickly, and the geometer had nothing to do but to follow her. On

arriving at home, they surprised her mother at her private cup of

coffee,--which was unpleasant. They now took the street of the village.

Florian had no other design on this Sunday than to attract attention,

in which he succeeded brilliantly. Everybody spoke of him,--of his

black velvet roundabout with silver buttons, his free rifleman's vest

of red and black stripes, and his other glories. The people of a

village, as of a city, are grateful to any one who will furnish them

with a subject of conversation. The old butcher, Florian's father,

drank in the fame of his son from every mouth, and did his best to

keep it at the full. He was still rather a handsome man himself,

with a rubicund face and bright gray eyes. He walked about in his

shirt-sleeves and carried his handkerchief in the armpit of his

waistcoat,--which gave him an air of originality. Whenever he met any

one, he drew out his snuff-box and offered a pinch of "doppelmops,"

saying, "My Florian brought it with him: he's a fine fellow, a'n't he?

None like him for twenty miles around. His master would give him his

daughter in a minute, but the rapscallion won't have her. His master

makes more out of hoofs than three Horb butchers do out of beef: he

kills eight calves every day and two or three oxen besides. What would

you think," he would generally add, taking off his little frontless

cap, formed in the resemblance of a cabbage-leaf, and putting it on

again, "if I was to go to Strasbourg and marry the girl? If she must

have a tall man, why shouldn't the old one be as good as the young? I

won't back out for any one yet a while."

[Illustration: He stopped at the door of George the blacksmith.]

He stopped longest at the door of George the blacksmith,--a childless

old man of more than eighty years of age,--who was always sitting

before his house at the roadside and hearing the news from all who

passed by. Old George and old Maurita of the Bridge were the two

persons through whom a piece of news could be brought to the cognizance

of every soul in the village. George repeated every thing, good or bad,

to tease others and to show them that he knew every thing; Maurita told

the good news to impart her gladness, and the sad ones to obtain

sharers in her regret. George the blacksmith was the largest purchaser

of the old butcher's vaunts.

Thus the Sunday passed; and, when Crescence returned with the geometer,

long after dark, she thanked her stars that the dreaded fracas had not

occurred.

4.

HOW FLORIAN AND CRESCENCE MET AGAIN FOR THE FIRST TIME.

Crescence rose an hour before daybreak next morning, fed the cattle,

and attended quietly to the house-affairs. Once she looked up with pain

when it occurred to her that she had not hummed a single tune. She went

into the field.

[Illustration: Crescence with a bundle of fresh clover on her head.]

With a bundle of fresh clover on her head, she came up the valley on

her return, looking beautiful, as the healthful exercise brought out

her fine form in all its strength and pliancy. With her right hand she

held the bundle, and with her left the rake, which lay on her shoulder

and also served to steady the load. She walked with leisurely and

measured pace, the red blossoms blinking into her rosy face. Not far

from Jacob's crucifix, the voice of Florian, who said, "God bless you,

Crescence!" rooted her to the earth.

"Come," said Florian, again; "I'll carry it for you."

"For pity's sake, don't make me stop here, Florian, when all the people

are looking at us. You see I can't help myself now, and can't run away,

but I'll never speak a word to you again as long as I live if you don't

go away. Come to Melchior's Lenore to-night before curfew, and I'll

tell you every thing."

"Shake hands, won't you?"

Laying her left arm across the rake, Crescence took his hand, saying,

"Good-bye till to-night."

All at once, in resuming her steps, Crescence perceived what a heavy

load she had to carry: she groaned as if Firnut Pete had clambered on

her shoulders in broad daylight. Having reached the crucifix, she

deposited the burden on the high stone erected there for that purpose.

This silent assistant is always found beside the symbol of faith. At

the feet of Him who laid the heaviest burden on himself to make men

free and brotherly, men take off a while the load of the day, to gather

strength for further toil.

Crescence looked intently at the crucifix, but without thinking of what

she did; for her mind was occupied with dread of Florian's following

her. She determined not to turn round to look at him, and did turn,

nevertheless; while a glow of pleasure lighted her face as she saw the

brisk young fellow striding across the field.

All that day Crescence was serious and taciturn. Before dark, she took

a collar, to get Walpurgia to wash it, as she said; but, instead of

going to Walpurgia, she hurried to Lenore's house. The latter came to

meet her, saying,--

"Go through the barn: you'll find him in the garden."

"Come with me," said Crescence.

"I'm coming directly: just you go first."

[Illustration: Crescence saw Florian sitting on a log.]

As she entered the garden, Crescence saw Florian sitting on a log,

stooping greatly, and digging into the wood with a knife which looked

somewhat like a stiletto. His long chestnut hair nearly covered his

forehead.

"Florian, what are you doing?" asked Crescence.

He threw the knife aside, shook his hair out of his face threw his arms

around Crescence, and kissed her. She offered no resistance, but at

length said,--

"There! that's enough now: you are just the same you always were."

"Yes; but you're not what you used to be."

"Not a bit changed. You are cross because I go with the geometer, a'n't

you? Well, you know you and I could never have got married. My folks

won't let me go to service; and stay with them I don't want to, either,

until my hair turns gray."

"If that's the way, and you like the geometer, I've nothing more to

say: you might have told me that this morning. I remember a time when

the king might have come,--and he owns the whole country, which is more

than helping to measure it,--and you'd have said, 'No, thank you: I

like my Florian better, even if he have nothing but the clothes on his

back.'"

"Why, how you talk! What's the use of all that when we never can get

married?"

"Oh, yes: there's the Red Tailor's daughter all over. If I'd only never

cast eyes on you again! If I'd only broken both my legs before they

ever carried me back home!"

"Oh, don't be so solemn, now! You'll look kindly at me yet, and laugh

with me a little when you meet me, won't you?"

She gave him a look of playful tenderness, and smiled,--though she was

more disposed to weep. Florian, picking up his knife and putting it in

his pocket, made a move to go, when Crescence seized his hand and

said,--

"Don't be angry with me, Florian: talk to me, dear. Don't you see? I

haven't married the geometer yet, but cut him I can't now: my folks

would throttle me in my sleep if I was to turn him off. Nothing can

come of it for two or three years, anyhow; and who knows what may

happen in that time? Perhaps I shall die. I wish I would, I'm sure."

Her voice was choked.

Florian's manner suddenly changed. The languor so unusual in him was

gone: their eyes met, and held each other beaming with joy.

"You see," he began, "as I sat there waiting, I felt as if somebody had

broken all my bones. I was thinking how unlucky we are, and again and

again I was tempted to stab myself with this knife. If some one had

come under my hands, I don't know---- And I don't want to go away,

either; and I must stay here; and I must have you."

"Yes; I wish you had; but we can't live on the old Emperor's exchequer.

I know somebody who could help us, and _I_ could make him."

"Never tell me about him: he's nothing to you, and shall be nothing. I

won't have it: you are your father's child, and if anybody says any

thing else I'll stick him like an eight-day calf. My father has half

emptied my pockets already, but I've got some money yet: I mean to stay

here a while and work under my father's right as a master-butcher. I

want to show these Nordstetters what Florian can do: they shall have

respect for me, they shall."

"You're a fine fellow," said Crescence. "Haven't you brought me any

thing?"

"Yes, I have. Here."

Taking from his pocket a broad ring of silver, and a flaming heart in

colors, with a motto in it, he handed them to Crescence.

After the first expressions of delight, she offered to read the motto;

but Florian stopped her, saying, "You can do that after I am gone: now

let's have a talk."

"Yes; tell me something. Is it true that you are courting your master's

daughter in Strasbourg?"

"Not a bit of it. If I was, I wouldn't stay here; and stay I shall. All

the Nordstetters must say that the like of Florian's not to be seen

anywhere."

They remained long together. When Crescence returned home, she found

the geometer waiting for her, and was forced to receive him with

smiles. With a heavy heart she reached her chamber at last, and read

the motto on the flaming heart:--

"Better build my grave of stone

Than love and call you not my own."

Weeping, she laid the picture into her hymn-book. It was the old story

of what occurs in thousands of instances, in town and country, though

often the colors are more blended and the contrasts not so harsh.

Crescence loved Florian, and yet could not renounce the hope of a good

establishment, such as she might expect to receive at the hands of the

geometer: love drew her in one direction, interest in another. It would

be strange if such discords did not lead to misery.

5.

FLORIAN DROPS A BUTTON OR TWO.

Florian remained in the village, and slaughtered first one heifer and

then another. Though at first things looked prosperous, the run of good

luck soon came to an end. The old butcher went around hawking out the

meat which had not been sold at the shambles; but he generally spent

not only the profit, but the cost besides. The competition of the

Jewish butchers was not to be overcome even by Florian's superior

skill; for the Jews can undersell Christians in the hindquarters of

beef, because an opportune provision of the Bible forbids them to eat

any thing but the fore-quarters. Moreover, it is almost impossible in a

German village to support a household on mechanical labor alone,

without some resort to agriculture. Florian had no opportunity, and

still less inclination, to till the soil. He preferred to go into

partnership with a Jewish butcher for a time; but this was also of

short duration.

His next resource was to assist the Strasbourg butchers in purchasing

oxen. This helped him to some good commissions, and enabled him to make

his father the happiest of men. The old gentleman was restored to his

favorite occupation of guessing at the weight of oxen. It quite made

him young again. Florian was the leading young man in the village.

Unfortunately, he made the squire his enemy. The latter, wishing to

sell his oxen to some dealers passing through the village, invited

Florian to come to his house. "They weigh fourteen hundred, and over,"

he asseverated. "What they weigh over eleven," said Florian, "I'll eat

raw." This was foolish; for from that day the squire hated him

cordially.

Florian cared but little for this, however: he played the fine

gentleman every Sunday, played longest at ninepins, and was a fast man

generally.

It is strange how soon the glory of the stranger in a village is

consumed. The honor acquired merely by presenting an unusual appearance

ceases the moment all eyes have become accustomed to it: the rainbow

would be forgotten if it were always in the sky. Thus, Florian soon

sunk into oblivion; and it required a special occurrence to attract

attention to him again.

One evening he was standing, with his comrades, near the Eagle, while

the squire sat on a bench before the house, talking to the geometer.

Florian perceived that they were looking at him: he saw the squire pass

his hand over his upper lip, while the geometer laughed immoderately

and said something which sounded like "Samson." Florian did not

understand what it all meant; but he was soon to have an explanation.

He received a summons next day to appear before the squire, who, as our

renders may remember, had formerly been a non-commissioned officer. He

now ordered Florian to "take the hair off his mouth," because he had

never been a soldier, and none but soldiers were allowed to wear

mustaches. Florian laughed at the squire, who took it in dudgeon;

Florian answered his vituperations, and was marched off to prison.

It is a dangerous thing to arrest a man who is innocent of crime: it

palls his feeling and his sense of moral responsibility for those

occasions in which these qualities are particularly tried.

When Florian came out he was compelled to obey the cruel behest. With

an indescribable mixture of wrath and humiliation he stood before the

looking-glass, compressing his naked lips and gnashing his teeth. A

dreadful vow was formed in his heart. Nothing was talked of in the

village but the loss of Florian's mustache; and, now that it was gone,

all united in singing its praises. Florian felt as if his skin had been

peeled off. Of course, when he appeared in the street, every passer-by

regaled him with an expression of condolence. But ambition had already

perverted him to such an extent that he fairly enjoyed even this sort

of notoriety. To be thought about was the first thing; _what_ people

thought of him was only the second. He was never seen near the tailor's

house in the daytime; and when he met Crescence in the evening, and she

laughed at him, he swore to make the geometer pay him for every hair.

She tried to pacify him; and he was silent.

Very soon after, the geometer, in returning home from Horb one evening,

was waylaid by three men, who dragged him into the woods, and, with the

cry of "Wale him! he's from Ulm!" beat him so unmercifully that he

could scarcely walk home. One of them cried after him, as he went away,

"This was out of kindness; but if you show your face in the village a

week after this we'll try the other persuasion." The geometer thought

he recognised Florian's voice. He tried to institute a prosecution; but

the polities of the village were then in such a state of agitation that

no business of public import was properly attended to.

The shaving of Florian was the last official act of the noncommissioned

squire. The election came on, and Buchmaier received almost every vote.

Under his administration people were free from paltry vexations, and

Florian's mustache regained its pristine beauty.

In spite of the exertions of the Red Tailor and mine host of the Eagle,

the geometer transferred his head-quarters to Muehl.

Meantime Florian also had met with reverses. He appeared to have

quarrelled with the Strasbourgers, for he no longer acted as their

agent. The old butcher also was generally at home: he had found a new

source of revenue, which was very productive. On his travels as a

drover he had made the acquaintance of some smuggler in Baden, which at

that time had not acceded to the Zollverein. He sold coffee and sugar

free of duty, and made money by the operation. The Red Tailor found his

grocery-business ruined by the interference of the secret competitor;

and yet the quarrel existing between the parents on account of their

children made it necessary to keep up a continental system and rigid

prohibitory tariff. The tailor's wife, however, hit upon a fortunate

expedient: the house of Corpse Kitty became the neutral ground for

negotiations. Corpse Kitty bought the imported goods for the account of

the legitimate trade. Thus intrigues are at work between the great

powers even when to the uninitiated they appear to be at open war.

Almost every Sunday Crescence was compelled, with cruel maltreatment,

to go with her father and meet the geometer in Muehl or at the half-way

house in Eglesthal. She was then gay and sprightly against her will;

and, after she had carried on this hypocrisy long enough, the wine

would come to her aid and really elevate her spirits,--so that the

geometer always ended with thinking that she was still really fond of

him.

But in the evening she always contrived to meet Florian; and, when she

returned home, new maltreatment awaited her. Thus poor Crescence led a

wretched life,--though, fortunately for her, she was so much inured to

deceit and untruth that she was not aware of the full extent of its

depravity.

6.

FLORIAN IN CLOVER.

Florian tried to earn some money here and there, but rarely succeeded.

He would only work at his trade or at some other agreeable occupation.

Field-labor was beneath his dignity; and he would rather have starved

than break stone on the highroad,--the usual resource of men without

capital. Like many others, he would only work at what he liked,--a

principle upon which very few men indeed ever manage to prosper. But a

time came for him to obtain some funds and a plentiful supply of that

glory which he so much craved. The bel-wether dance was approaching,

and great preparations were being made for it. Mine host of the Eagle

had made his peace with Florian and his friends; for he understood his

position too well to keep up a feud with his neighbors in the quarrel

of a customer who had left. Florian now slaughtered for Caspar a heifer

and a hog. The latter ceremony was performed in the street, so that

everybody stopped to watch the active functionary, whom it was indeed a

pleasure to see in the labor of his trade. The muscles of his bare arms

were so strong and smooth that the life and death of the poor beasts

seemed indeed to lie in his hand. With three strokes upon the steel he

whetted his knife so sharp that he could cut a hair loose at one end.

But the greatest crowd of idlers always assembled when he began to chop

the sausage-meat. He handled his cleavers as lightly as a drummer his

sticks, whistling a waltz the meanwhile to keep himself in time. A

particular flourish consisted in throwing one of the cleavers into the

air while he chopped on uninterruptedly with the other, snapping the

fingers of the empty hand, catching the cleaver again, and chopping on

without getting out of the time. At this achievement all lifted up

their hands in astonishment.

The old butcher was present also, mainly to assist in consuming the

kettle-meat, fresh from the fire; after which the renown of his son

afforded an excellent dessert. He strolled to George the blacksmith's

door, and found him in deep lamentation. "All my subjects refuse to

obey me," he said. "They leave me sitting here all alone and run to

watch Florian. I'd give three creutzers if he'd come and do his killing

here."

"Yes," added the old butcher, rubbing his hands, "the court-butcher at

Stuttgard can't come up to my Florian. He once made a bet with

his friends in Strasbourg to get four calves and two hogs into

marketing-order without bringing a speck on his clothes; and he did it,

and his apron and his shirt were as white as the driven snow."

Florian now received so many orders that he found no rest by day or

night, and when the day of the bel-wether dance came he overslept the

morning service.

Crescence had promised the geometer an interview at Eglesthal; but

Florian easily succeeded in inducing her to break her word.

The close of the afternoon service was the signal of rejoicings

throughout the village. In the yard of the manor-house a number of

stakes were put up in a ring, with a rope around them. In the middle

stood a fine wether, decorated with a red ribbon, while a glittering

bowl of pewter was on a little table beside him. The band of musicians

headed the procession, followed by the boys and girls in couples, hand

in hand.

[Illustration: The boys and girls in couples, hand in hand.]

At the gate of the yard a clock had been fastened so that it could not

be seen. At the stroke of two the "free dance" began. A march was

played, and the couples walked around the rope in strict order. An

old-fashioned sabre had been stuck into one of the stakes; and whenever

a couple came up to it the man pulled it out and thrust it into the

next stake to which they came. When Florian and Crescence reached the

sword, the former balanced it on his teeth, and thus carried it in

safety to the next station. A general "Look a' there!" was his reward.

Corpse Kitty prophesied that he would win the wether. Thus they all

went round and round, laughing and talking. When Florian took the sword

for the second time, the clock suddenly struck three. A hurrah

resounded on all sides. The rope was torn away, and the wether, the

ribbon, and the bowl were brought to Florian. The girls came up, wished

Crescence joy, and wound the ribbon into her hair. "It's all right

now," said Melchior's Lenore: "you're bound to have each other before

the year's out." Crescence was weeping, however, for her father stood

before her, clenching his fist.

They now followed the band to the inn, where Florian and Crescence

opened the dance.

Buchmaier, the new squire, had revived an ancient custom. Instead of

ordering the beadle or a _gens d'armes_ to keep order during the

dance, he had summoned all the boys who had passed their eighteenth

year to meet on the preceding evening for the purpose of electing two

"dance-boys." Constantine, and Valentine the carpenter's son Xavier,

received the greatest number of votes: the winner of the wether was to

be the third, the squire only stipulating the right of nominating him

in case this good fortune should befall one of the two who had been

elected. Florian now entered upon this office, and was marked, like

his colleagues, with a white ribbon tied round his arm. These three

were made responsible for any disturbances; but no disturbance

occurred,--for people are always easily governed by rulers of their own

selection.

Crescence was overflowing with happiness, and forgot all about the

geometer. None--not even George--could dance like Florian: he clapped

his feet together at every bar of the music, so that all eyes were

directed to his glistening boots. Sometimes, in the middle of the

dance, he would cry, "Sing out!" Not his feet, but all his body and

soul, rose and sunk in accordance with the music: he was a dancer all

over. He would not stand still for an instant; and, when the musicians

stopped to rest a while, he said to the clarionet, "Make your old bones

rattle." "Pour something in to make it swell," was the answer. Florian

threw six creutzers on the table.

Late at night the "barber's dance" was executed, in which Florian

appeared in all his glory. A man was brought in, looking as white as

milk, with a hump before and behind, and bandaged from head to foot

with white sheets and kerchiefs. You would hardly have recognised the

College Chap. The band played the air of the song,--

"Oh, my! I feel so bad!

Bring me the barber's lad."

A chair was placed in the middle of the room, and the patient deposited

upon it. The expected man of simples came, hung round about with

knives, with a huge pinch nose, and a wig of tow. It was Florian who

thus entered, amid roars of laughter.

With comical gestures, he skipped around the patient, opened the

bandage on his arm, bled him, and finally stuck a knife into the hump

and left it there. The sick man fell dead, and a funeral-march was

played. The unlucky surgeon rushed around the room in an agony of

despair, pulled his wig out by handfuls, and threw them into the faces

of the company. The music died away. At last, laying his hand upon his

forehead, he collected his scattered wits, and cried, "Music!" Notes of

mourning responded. He knelt down beside the dead man, opened his

mouth, and drew out yards on yards of white tape, but without producing

any relief. Then, taking a quart-tumbler, he filled it to the brim with

wine, placed it on his forehead, and lay down on his back beside the

sick man, moving in time to the music. All held their breath in

expectation of a crash; but the feat was successfully performed. The

entire contents of the glass were now poured down the patient's throat.

He struck about him and threw off his disguise. Florian did the same:

the band struck up a gallop: the old squire's Babbett ran up and danced

with Constantine, Crescence and Florian followed suit, and all were

once more in motion. The fictitious misfortunes with which they had

amused themselves gave an additional zest to the return of pleasure.

Some hours later, when they were all seated at table, drinking and

singing, Florian favored the company with a new song which he had

picked up on his travels:--

"In Strasbourg on the rampart,

She loved me much indeed:

She always brought my breakfast

And a letter for to read.

"I always got the letter:

The breakfast never came:

And in it there was written,

'Winter has come again.'

"Winter has come, as usual;

The bosses are feeling good:

They say to the poor journeymen,

'Go out and split some wood.

"'And mind you make it small enough,

And make it not too small;

And you shall be my journeymen,

As you have been this fall.'

"And winter is past and over;

The jours are full of pluck:

They come to the boss's table

And tell him what's o'clock.

"'Come, boss; its time to settle:

Bring out your little bill:

You gave us beans this winter,

And we have had our fill.'

"'Oh, if the bread's not white enough,

I'll get another kind,

And if your bed's not soft enough----'"

At the lines which followed, sad to say, Crescence did not blush, nor

did any of the other girls; but all received the production with

unmingled merriment.

Who could doubt, after this, that Florian was the leading young man in

the village?

But when Crescence came home she had to expiate her glory with bitter

sufferings: her mother was sick, and her father, for the time-being,

reigned supreme. But she bore all without a murmur, knowing that

Florian would be hers; for hadn't they won the wether?

7.

DOWN HILL.

With the jollification the importance of Florian came to an end. He was

pushed into a corner, like a bass-fiddle in working-time: people went

about their business, and thought little of the fun-makers. Florian

alone had no business to go about: he hung around the taverns until he

ceased to be welcome even there.

In a village it is very difficult to keep up appearances on fictitious

capital. Baden had joined the "Zollverein," and the old butcher's

occupation was gone likewise. Nevertheless, Florian continued to walk

about, erect and proud, in the fine clothes he had purchased in his

best days. He was always neatly brushed; and, though his boots were

soleless, the upper leathers shone as heretofore.

"They can look at my clothes, but not into my stomach," was his motto.

The watch with the silver seals he wore on Sunday only, having received

this privilege when he left it with old Gudel.

The fair at Horb brought another holiday for half the village. At

daybreak the old butcher was seen standing at Jacob's Well, while all

the farmers who passed on the road with their cattle asked him what

they weighed. He was delighted with this occupation, for it made him

feel as if he could buy them all himself; and, besides, he hoped that

one or the other would invite him to go to town. In this he was

disappointed, however,--poor fellow! He had handled so much fine meat

in his time, and for two weeks he had been compelled to put up with a

vegetable diet! Finding all his trouble in vain, he sighed heavily,

wiped the sweat from his forehead, went home to get his stick and walk

over to the fair on speculation, to look out for something to turn up.

Florian ran distractedly up and down the village. He met Crescence, who

was going to the fair with her father, but ran past them without

stopping to talk: he had not a copper, in his pocket. Whenever he met a

young man, he meditated asking him for a loan, but would stop himself

with "Oh, he won't give me any thing," or, "He hasn't much to spare,

and then I'd only have the shame of it." Thus he suffered one and

another to pass by. "What should I go to market for? They're not

selling me out there, and there's a great many not going besides

myself; but then that is because they don't want to, and I don't go

because I can't." It now seemed to him as if a joy never to be replaced

would be lost if he remained at home: he must go: every thing depended

upon it. With a flushed face and flashing eyes, he walked along the

village, constantly talking to himself. "There lives Jack the

blacksmith. I treated him ever so often at the bel-wether dance; but he

won't give me any thing, for all that. There's Koch the carpenter: he's

been abroad like myself. I'll go to him: it's the first time I'm so

familiar with him; but it can't be helped."

He found Koch the carpenter untying a heifer from the crib, complaining

bitterly of hard times. He went away without mentioning the object of

his visit. The College Chap had left home already, and Florian made up

his mind to go to the Eagle and say that the College Chap had sent him

to ask for a loan of six dollars: he scorned to ask for a trifle. Mine

host of the Eagle answered, "I won't lend any thing to anybody: it only

sets the best of friends by the ears." "Just what I said myself," said

Florian, laughing bitterly, as he turned away.

With a feeling of utter desolation, he walked about, thinking, "Without

money a man's a stranger in his own house." Suffused with perspiration,

he ran up one street and down another: it seemed as if every minute

wasted was a loss not to be retrieved. He now bethought himself of the

aristocratic expedient of borrowing from a Jew. Like the noble lords

and ladies who first invented this practice, he had no reason to fear

the reproving looks of these people in his further extravagances and

vain-glory. "Jews' claims are no disgrace," he said to himself, and

applied to Mendle's son Meyer, who was going to market with a belt full

of money, for the loan of some ducats at a high rate of interest. The

offer was rejected.

At last it occurred to him to go straight to Horb and pretend that he

had lost or forgotten his money. Vexed with himself for not having

thought of this before, he set out immediately. He passed George the

blacksmith, sitting at his front door as usual, and in the best of

spirits,--for the marketers afforded him plenty of entertainment.

"Where bound so fast, Florian? You look as if you could buy the world

out."

Florian stared, and stood still. He forgot that it was George's

peculiar delight, when people passed with a heavy burden, a sack of

corn, or a bundle of clover, to hold them fast with questions. Many

were caught in this trap; and then the old gossip would rejoice that he

could sit there doing nothing while others toiled and struggled. He was

equally fond of laying hands on such as had heavy loads upon their

hearts; for it was just at such times that they were likely to be most

communicative. All this escaped Florian; and he inquired,--

"How do you know that?"

"Can't you tell by looking at a stocking when the leg's out of it? I

know all about it. Crescence went up just now, with her mother's

husband, going to market, too."

"Never fear."

"I know all about it. They say you're well tied up with her." Florian

smiled and passed on, glad to know that the truth was not suspected.

[Illustration: Florian saw Schlunkel sitting by the roadside.]

In the hollow Florian saw Schlunkel,--an outcast of a fellow, who had

been to the penitentiary twice, sitting by the roadside and counting

money. At another time he would not have honored such a wretch with a

look; but now he could not help addressing him with, "Shall I help you

count?" The fellow looked at him without answering.

Florian sat down beside him and at last asked him for a florin.

Schlunkel grinned, tightened the strings of his purse, passed his

finger across his mouth, and whistled. Florian held his arm

convulsively.

"You wouldn't take the money from _me_, would you?" asked Schlunkel.

"What do you want so much money for?"

"I want to buy something."

"Well, I'll go to Horb with you."

Florian would rather have perished on the spot than to have been seen

walking with Schlunkel in broad daylight. "Give me six creutzers," he

said: "I'll meet you in the 'Knight' in an hour, and pay you."

Schlunkel gave him the money, and Florian ran away with the speed of

lightning, often putting his hand into his pocket to make quite sure of

how much he had. He squeezed the four coins through his fingers one by

one, as if to make each one bring forth another. He went whistling

through the cattle-fair, to reach the fancy fair in the upper part of

the town.

8.

FLORIAN LOSES MONEY AND WINS CRESCENCE.

He was brought to a pause by the sight of a gaming-table. He passed on,

and inspected the tobacco-pipes in the next booth. Turning back, he

resolved merely to look at the others who were playing. One was

particularly fortunate with No. 8. Putting his hand in his pocket, he

set a three-creutzer piece on the same number, and lost it. He tried

again, and again he lost. He bit his lips until they bled, but

immediately looked around with a smile, to conceal his vexation. He

lost again. He felt his knees knocking, and his intestines boiled. With

hot, trembling hand, he threw down his last coin, and looked another

way. He won back all the money he had lost. He seized it hastily,

thinking, "There! so much for playing with edged tools. I'll hold on to

you now, my darling!" Yet he remained rooted to the spot. It would not

do to let people see how glad he was to walk off without being fleeced.

Then again he reflected that he must, somehow, raise money to pay

Schlunkel. He would try one piece, and put the rest of his money into

his right pocket, where he never put his hand.

He played: he did put his hand into his right pocket; and he walked

away with empty pockets. With inexpressible grief and self-accusation,

he now ran about the market: thousands of things were offered for sale,

but he could not stretch forth his hand to take them. A terrible curse

against the world rose to his lips: he longed to turn every thing

topsy-turvy.

We might be tempted to ask, "What reason has a man like Florian to rave

at the world? The world has done him no harm: he is himself the cause

of his own distress." But then people like Florian--whether they belong

to the class of society which wears gloves, or to that which wears them

not--are never ready to think: when in bad luck they scold.

His only comfort was that he was firmly resolved never to touch a

die again as long as he lived. To-be-sure, it was easy to shut the

stable-door after the horse was stolen: still, there was some comfort

in a virtuous resolution.

He met his father looking very happy. "Have you any money, father?"

said Florian, running up to him.

"Yes: I've earned three six-creutzer pieces, selling some oxen. See!"

"Give me two of them."

Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared with the money. He now

walked up and down among the booths in good spirits, sustained by the

consciousness of possession. He no longer cast a look upon the

gambling-tables.

But soon he began to think that he had been very stupid in skipping

about from one number to another: how could he help losing them? Should

the rascally sweat-cloth fellows have the satisfaction of keeping it?

But then he had sworn never to touch a die again! Well, he would keep

his vow: he would go where the croupier made the die roll through the

coils of a snake, and where he might play without touching any thing.

At first he played for creutzers, like the others. He used great

circumspection, taking care to remember the numbers which had won

frequently, and betting upon the others. For some time he neither lost

nor won. Finding this tedious, he staked larger pieces, and tried

several numbers at a time, and with success. Seeing some of his

acquaintances, he beckoned to them to come up and join him.

[Illustration: The croupier made the die roll through the coils of a

snake.]

But the tide soon turned, and Florian lost. He now wandered about the

board, passed every number, and changed his bet before the throw fell.

When, at such times, the deserted number proved the winning one, he

laughed aloud. Fortune frowned more and more, though he returned to his

old system of remaining true to certain numbers. Taking his last

groat, he laid it upon the table with such force as to make the table

quiver,--and lost.

Florian continued to regard the board intently, with breath almost

suppressed, though a tempest of emotion was raging within him. Having

stayed long enough to prevent his acquaintances from suspecting the

true state of the case, he stole away. Now he had neither vows nor

curses, neither good nor evil intentions: he wandered from place to

place like a body without a soul, without thoughts, without will, dull,

hollow, and ruined.

The sound of music awakened him from his trance, and he found himself

before the Rose Inn. The French simpleton, who was standing at the door

and waiting for somebody to treat him, cried, "_Drenda marioin_," and

made a sign of thirst; but Florian pushed him aside and went up into

the dancing-hall.

Every one treated him: he only sipped at the glass and offered to set

it down again. "It's in good hands," was the cry,--meaning, "Drink it

all." "High up behind, they say at the Rhine," he would then say, and

drain the glass at a draught.

The frequent repetition of this ceremony infused new life into him: the

various kinds of wine had the same effect, and he wiped his forehead.

At length Peter came up to him, saying, "Have you seen Crescence? She

is sitting at the Knight with the geometer."

Florian hardly stayed to drain his friend's glass. An object had

appeared upon which to vent his wrath: he had an excuse for committing

a crime, for destroying himself and others. Through lanes and alleys,

passing the little apothecary-shop where the crowd never came, he made

his way to the Knight, and bounded up-stairs, taking three steps at a

time.

Oh that men would run to do good with half the impetuosity which wafts

them on the road to evil! How often do they scorn wind and weather,

distance and darkness, in the gratification of their baser passions!

but, when a duty is to be done, every breath is too rude, and every

pebble an insurmountable hindrance.

As he entered the room, panting and out of breath, Crescence ran to

meet him with beaming eyes, and, taking his trembling hand in hers, she

said, "God be praised, you are mine again, and I am all yours now: I've

just sent the geometer about his business for good and all. It's been

boiling in me a long time, and at last it ran over. Oh, I'm so glad! I

don't know what to do. I know whom I belong to now, and I belong to

you, and will belong to you, no matter what happens. What makes you

look so cross? A'n't you glad, too, that there's an end of this lying?"

She straightened his cap, which had been pushed to one side of his

head. Florian suffered her to say and do what she liked. He awoke from

a dream of vice, blood, and horror, to find himself in the arms of love

and peace. He almost recoiled from this true-hearted love which came to

him in the abyss of his degradation. Nothing had been left him but his

poor, wasted life, which he would so gladly have thrown off likewise:

now he learned to prize it again when he saw another life twined so

confidingly around it. Smiling with a mixture of sadness and glee, he

said at last, "Come, Crescence: let's go."

Crescence made no objection, though she could not help looking up with

a smile at hearing the musicians strike up a fresh waltz: full as her

heart was, she would gladly have danced a little, though she refrained

from saying so,--not so much to guard against misunderstanding as

because it made her happy just to live according to Florian's pleasure.

Near the front door Schlunkel was sitting over his wine without a

companion. To the astonishment of Crescence, he asked Florian to drink

with him; and Florian not only acknowledged the salutation, but said to

her, "Go on a little: I'll come right-away."

She waited for him on the front door-steps. Schlunkel said, "Well,

where's my money?"

"I can't pay you now: I can't cut it out of my ribs."

"Then you must give me the knife there in pawn."

"Oh, now, just wait till to-morrow night: do. If I don't give it to you

then, you shall have it double."

"Oh, yes: you can promise it double; but who's to give it to me?"

"I am."

"Will you come to me to-morrow night?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm agreed."

Florian passed on, and when Crescence asked him, "What does that wretch

want of you?" he blushed like a fire-thief, and answered, "Nothing: he

wanted me to sell him my knife."

"Don't let him have it: he'd murder somebody with it."

Florian shuddered; and it pained him to see the undoubting faith with

which Crescence received his words.

9.

WHAT BECOMES OF A SCAPEGRACE AND OF A LOVING GIRL.

Half the world do not know how the other half lives. People could not

imagine how Florian managed to get enough to eat. The truth was, he

very often had not enough. In one of these emergencies he applied to

the College Chap for a loan.

"Why, Florian," was the answer, "this sort of thing won't do: you must

manage to get a living: you can't go on this way."

"That's neither here nor there," replied Florian: "you can tell me all

that some other time when I'm not head over ears in trouble. Help me

out now, and preach your sermons afterward."

The admonition was ill-timed, and therefore worse than useless: Florian

pitied instead of blaming himself, and thought himself more sinned

against than sinning. With a certain air of forgiveness, he repeated

his request.

"It won't do," said the College Chap, "for a man to scatter his money

about just when he's going to be married. You'll have to get along

without me."

The College Chap was betrothed to the old squire's Babbett,--although,

as the readers of Ivo's story may remember, he was not inordinately

fond of her. He had asked for the hand of Buchmaier's Agnes, and had

met with a refusal. This he told wherever he went, calculating that he

must pass for a trump card if people knew he'd had the pluck to try for

the first girl in the village: "they all knew that the richest would

come in for their turn in no time." But they did not come in, and he

contented himself with Babbett.

Like many other spendthrifts, the College Chap was no sooner thrown

upon his own resources than he turned stingy and unfeeling.

It was Florian's misfortune that of all others the College Chap was his

most intimate companion. He could not but say to himself, "He isn't a

bit better than I am: why am I so much worse off?" He quarrelled with

his fortunes more and more, lost his energy, and became morose and

querulous.

Meanwhile Crescence was quite happy. Her father's ill-treatment of her,

though unrelenting, afforded her at bottom more gratification than

regret. She was restored to herself from the moment she had determined

to be his alone whom her heart had chosen. Knowing Florian's

circumstances, she did not scruple to relieve him by all the means in

her power. She took tobacco and other creature-comforts out of the

store, and forced them upon Florian's acceptance. Though at first

ashamed to receive them, he soon came to devising plans with her for

more extensive peculations, having found means of disposing of them

through Schlunkel's intervention. Crescence obeyed in all things. To

her mind Florian was lawfully the lord of the world and of all it

contained, and entitled to regard all men as his subjects. For a while,

she thought, he chose to live without the insignia of his power, but he

would soon arise and show the world what was really in him. She hoped

that the time was at hand when he would come forth in all his glory.

This hope was as clear and confident in her heart as her expectation of

the coming day; and yet she knew not what she hoped. But a storm soon

broke in rudely upon her daydreams. The tailor detected the

embezzlements of his daughter, and drove her out of his house,

threatening to hand her over to justice if she returned. Her mother was

at the point of death and unable to protect her.

[Illustration: Crescence knew not where to turn.]

Crescence knew not where to turn. She went to Florian's door; but he

was not at home. When told the name of the nightly associate with whom

he had gone abroad, she wept aloud. Drawing her gown over her head to

ward off the beating rain, she wandered up and down for hours in a

state bordering on distraction. Could she but have crept away from

herself! At length she took courage to seek out Melchior's Lenore, and

was kindly received by her father.

Every effort at a reconciliation with her father failed. She now

knitted stockings and worked by the day: sometimes Florian assisted

her, for he had again found means to raise the wind. But she could not

touch a single coin without a shudder: in looking at the portraitures

of the august sovereigns which they bore, Schlunkel's features seemed

to peer out of every one of them.

Lenore always found out when the tailor went to Horb with his wallet,

and at such times Crescence would go home and supply herself with such

things as she most needed.

Florian also was often on the watch to see whether he might go to see

Schlunkel without impairing his reputation. A characteristic

occurrence, however, soon put an end to this joyless companionship.

Schlunkel had stolen two wethers from the paper-miller of Eglesthal.

One day when Florian was with him he called upon the latter to

slaughter and dress them. Florian's pride and glory up to that time had

been his art and mystery: the request was therefore the greatest

affront he could possibly have received. "Before I'd butcher stolen

cattle in secret," said he, "I'd cut your throat and mine both."

[Illustration: She took her necklace of garnets, with the brooch, from

her neck and handed them to him.]

"Oh, you soft-head," said Schlunkel, adroitly snatching Florian's knife

out of his pocket, "I'll never let you get out of this room alive

unless you slaughter these wethers, or pay me my two dollars."

"I'll see you!" Florian had him by the throat, and dragged at the knife

with all his might. They both struggled fiercely, without any success

on either side; but, suddenly hearing a noise, Florian released his

hold and jumped out of the window.

He went to Crescence sorrowfully and told her all.

Without saying a word, she took her necklace of garnets, with the

brooch, from her neck, drew her silver ring from her finger, and handed

them to him.

"What's that for?" asked Florian.

"To pawn or sell and pay the wretch with."

Florian embraced and kissed her, saying, "Do you do it; there's a good

girl: you shall have 'em back, depend upon it."

Crescence did as requested, and brought him his knife. There was no

blood upon it: he rejoiced greatly to know that his treasure had not

been abused.

10.

FLORIAN DISDAINS THE HELP WHICH IS OFFERED HIM.

"Crescence," said Florian, one day, "this sort of thing must come to an

end. I can't go abroad any more, because of you, and because it's a

matter of honor for me to get through without it. What do you say to

seeing the parson? If we can get a few hundred florins out of him we

can get married."

"I thought you didn't want to have any thing to do with him."

"What must be must," replied Florian. "Will you give me a letter to

him, and get your mother to sign it?"

"Just as you please: you know best. I'll do exactly as you wish me to."

Next day Florian was under way. His thoughts were gloomy when he

reflected upon where he was going; but the exercise soon improved his

spirits. For many weeks he had scarcely been outside of the village.

All his thoughts had been absorbed by paltry troubles and circumscribed

efforts: now he once more found a larger standard to measure things by,

and said to himself, "Why can't we live somewhere else? The Nordstetten

grass can grow without us. I can be happy with my Crescence, even

though George the blacksmith and the host of the Eagle know nothing

about it: but they must respect me first, and then I'll go. Not a

living soul must ever hear a word of this trip that I'm on now."

It was late in the afternoon when he reached his destination. At

the parsonage he found no one but the housekeeper,--a well-fed,

proud-looking personage. She made various efforts to fathom his

purpose, but could obtain no other answer than that he must see the

parson himself. At length he came, preceded by his brace of half-shorn

Pomeranian poodles, who offered to attack the stranger, but were

deterred by a single look. It was not without reason that people said

Florian could charm dogs with magic: the most furious suddenly took

fright when he eyed them sharply.

When Florian saw the parson, his own eyes fell. He was a powerful,

thick-set man, with a white-and-black cravat. Crescence was his image,

to the very freckles. The parson saw something suspicious in the

shyness of his visitor, and asked him what he wanted.

"I wish to speak a word with you alone," said Florian.

The parson bade him follow to his study.

Florian delivered the letter, and the parson read it. Florian watched

the play of his features narrowly.

"From whom is this letter?" asked the parson. "I don't know the

person."

"You know the Red Tailor's wife, surely? Her name is below there, and

the letter is from her oldest daughter. The tailor's wife is at the

point of death, and won't get well again."

"Sorry to hear it. Give the people my good wishes, and if I can do any

thing for them it shall be done."

"And you won't do something particular for Crescence now?"

"I don't see why."

"But I see it, your reverence. Not a soul shall ever hear of it, I'll

take my oath and sacrament upon it; but help us you must, or I don't

know what's to become of us both."

The parson fumbled in his pocket for his keys, and, having found the

right one, he twirled it in his fingers, saying, "I always like to

assist the poor, but can do very little just now."

"Then give me your handwriting for the balance."

At these words the parson looked around him with an air of wrath and

terror. He thought he must have betrayed himself in permitting Florian

to make such a demand. With forced hardness in his tone, he repeated,

"Once for all, I have nothing to do with these people; and here is

something toward your expenses."

Florian flung the money at his feet, crying, "I want to know whether

you mean to do your duty by your child or not. She's as like you as one

rain-drop's like the other. Yes or no? You are the father of my

Crescence. I dare not hurt you, and I will not hurt you; but--Lord

God!--I don't know what I am doing!" He seized the handle of the knife

in his pocket, snapped the lock of the door with his other hand, and

went on:--"I never slaughtered the wrong sort of cattle yet; but----"

He foamed and trembled with fury.

"You villain!" cried the parson, making for the window and opening it.

Suddenly the wall opened, and the housekeeper entered by a masked door,

saying, "The councilmen and the squire are over there, your reverence,

and want you to come over directly."

The knife almost fell from Florian's hand. The parson stood in the open

door in safety.

"What is your last word?" demanded Florian, once more.

"Clear out of my house this instant, or I'll have you arrested."

Florian departed with faltering steps: the last bough of the tree of

his hopes was broken. He wandered home in the darkness, accompanied by

dreadful thoughts. Once, looking up to the stars, he broke out into,

"Good God in heaven, can it be thy will that there should be men on

earth who must deny their children and cast them into misery? But it's

all my own fault. Why didn't I stick to my principle and have nothing

to do with him?"

It was three days before he set foot in the village again. He felt as

if a heavy chastisement were awaiting him,--as if he would be made to

do penance there; and yet he knew of no crime he had committed.

But, when some tale-bearers informed him that during his absence people

had said he had run away, his blood boiled within him. He had

sacrificed every thing to his reputation among the villagers; and now

he found the dearly-bought prize so fragile of texture that it could

not live three days without his nursing. A bitter contempt of humanity

began to take root in his soul.

On Sunday, as Florian was standing among the usual group of idlers in

front of the Eagle, Buchmaier stopped before him and said, "Florian,

let's have a word with you: I want to ask your advice about something."

"Certainly," said Florian, going off with him: "what is it?"

"I only said that because the others were listening. I want to talk

with you, but frankly. Where were you last week?"

"I can't tell you."

"Well, as you please. But look here, Florian: you are a smart fellow, a

quick and ready fellow: you understand your business through and

through."

"There's something behind all that. Out with it."

"I'd like to see you make something out of it all."

"All in good time."

"Now, listen to me quietly. I'm not talking to you as squire now, but I

say this because I wish you well. If you stay here as you do now you'll

go to wreck. What are you waiting for?"

Florian was evidently struck by the force of this question. After a

considerable pause, Buchmaier went on:--

"I know how it is very well. It's just like getting up out of bed: let

it be ever so hard, you don't like to stay there; but the minute you're

up and doing you feel a great deal better. So take my advice, and go.

If there was war I should say, 'Florian, take two suits of clothes, and

if one won't wear the other will;' but even as it is you can make out

finely without going to butchering men. But stay here you can't: you

must go."

"But I can't go, and won't go; and I'd like to see who's going to make

me."

"That's neither here nor there. You needn't come the fiery game over

me. I know you go to see Crescence. Well, if you have luck you can come

and fetch her. But here you're not respected."

"Who says that? Why, squire, if this was anybody but you, I'd show him.

Who can say any thing against my reputation?"

"Not a soul; and that's the very reason you ought to go now."

"But I can't, and I won't."

"If you're short of change, I'll try to get you a loan from the

treasury of the commune."

"I tell you I'd rather rob the saints. I'd rather lay my hand on this

block and chop it off than touch a pittance out of the public chest."

"You're far gone: you want to make a ten-strike, and there are only

nine pins standing. Florian, Florian, consider, there's not only a

right and a left, but there's a straight road too. If you don't ask too

much you shall have any money to travel with,--not as a gift, but as a

loan. 'Only half your money's lost on a young loafer,' they always say:

don't take it amiss, though."

Florian answered, gnashing his teeth, "I didn't ask your money nor your

advice, and no one has a right to call me names."

"Well, I've done: I've nothing more to say. But, if you should think

better of it, come to see me again to-morrow. Good-bye."

He left Florian harrowed in his inmost soul. Whistling a lively air, he

sauntered down the village, looking every one in the face, as if to ask

them, with defiance, whether they did not respect him.

Crescence never knew that this interview had taken place; and Florian

strove to banish it from his own recollection.

11.

FLORIAN HELPS HIMSELF.

Autumn had come: the Feast of Tabernacles was over, and Betsy's wedding

once more brought back the spirit of fun and frolic to the village.

According to the Hebrew ritual, the marriage was performed on the

highroad, under a spreading baldachin. The fanners--always glad of an

excuse to be idle--gathered around with open mouths: Florian and

Schlunkel were both among them. The latter pulled his former comrade by

the sleeve, whispering that he had something important to tell him; and

when the ceremony was over he stole round the rear of the manor-house

into the vaulted springhouse. Florian followed after some time, he knew

not why.

Schlunkel came to meet him, saying, "Shake hands: we'll both be rich

to-morrow." Without understanding him, Florian took his hand, saying,

"How so?"

"Just this way," said Schlunkel, with a skip and a jump. "This morning

Mendle's Meyer came home from the horse-market, where he sold all his

horses. He must have brought at least seven or eight hundred florins

home with him. I saw the belt: it looked like a liver-pudding. You know

how to handle a liver-pudding, don't you? We'll slice this up tonight.

A week ago the fire-committee had Meyer's bake-oven pulled down,

because it was in the corner there. He had the hole walled up with

brick. I helped to do it; and I laid one of the bricks so that you can

just take it out with your hand. So to-night, when they're all at the

wedding, we'll slip in and fetch the Jew's sausage."

"Not I," said Florian.

"Just as you please: you can get the money the commune offered you, if

you like that better, and see how far it'll go."

"How do you know that?"

"I've got a little bird that told me: you fool, all the swallows in the

chimneys are talking of it."

Florian stamped and bit his mustache. If he could have set fire to the

village at that moment he would gladly have done so. He saw them all

laughing at him, pitying him: the goal of his ambition--the veneration

of the community--had fallen to ashes. At last he was ready for any

thing. The enormity of the crime proposed never occurred to him for a

moment. As honor was lost, he would go away laden with booty. Like one

awaking from sleep, he said,--

"I'm in for it. What time?"

"About eight o'clock, I guess."

After another shake of the hand, Florian left his accomplice. As he

emerged from the dark house to the sunlight, he staggered like a

drunken man, and was obliged to stand still for a time and steady

himself by the wall. Then he went all through the village, whistling

and singing: Crescence alone he avoided with a sort of terror.

It seemed as if the crime were already perpetrated. He looked at

people's faces, to see whether their features showed any marks of

suspicion; and then, again, "What's the odds?" he said to himself:

"they don't think much of me, anyhow." Still, he was glad to remember

that the thing was not yet really accomplished. Once, on seeing

Buchmaier, he felt a desire to run away; but, ashamed of his weakness,

he renewed his vow not to falter in his purpose.

After dark, the boys and girls came to the dance, some of them bringing

wedding-presents. According to custom, they had three dances each.

Florian was among these arrivals. The bride came to welcome him,

saying, "Are you here too? Where's Crescence? I suppose she don't feel

much like dancing. Be sure you do the fair thing by her, Florian. Come;

let's have our last dance together."

The best dancer in the village was for once soon compelled to stop. His

knees shook: with such thoughts in his heart as he had, and with no

soles to his boots, it was not easy to waltz well.

"What's the matter with you? Why, you always danced like a

humming-top," said the bride. "Well, never mind. You don't know how

sorry I am not to see Crescence any more. We were always the best of

friends; but we're going off very early to-morrow morning. Come: I'll

give you a piece of wedding-cake for her: bring it to her, and say

'Good-bye' from me."

[Illustration: He received the cake and a glass of warm wine.]

Florian followed her into the back room, where he received the cake and

a glass of warm wine, which he swallowed at a draught. He found new

vigor coursing through his veins. As soon as he could, he stole

away,--soon returned, however, and then left again.

Schlunkel was already waiting behind Meyer's house with a little

ladder. There was no light: the whole family had gone to the wedding.

The breach was soon effected, and they slipped in. Having forced the

kitchen and the room door and the press, they found the money and

pocketed it, as well as some silver spoons and cups.

Florian was in the yard again, while Schlunkel tugged at a piece of

bedding which would not pass through the narrow aperture. Just at this

moment the owner of the house, who was coming up the stairs and had

seen the doors open, entered the kitchen and saw the pillow in motion:

he seized it on the inside and shouted lustily for help. Schlunkel

released his hold, fell upon the ground, and broke his leg. Florian

tried to help him; but, hearing the sound of footsteps, he only

whispered, "Don't betray me: you shall have the half," and made his

escape.

Schlunkel persisted in saying that he had had no accomplices. In regard

to a piece of wedding-cake which, was found in the yard, his

declarations varied: at first he pretended to know nothing about it,

but subsequently he remembered it was one of the articles stolen.

Florian had been seen at the dance about that time, and no one dared to

suppose he was in any manner connected with the crime.

12.

NEW BOOTS, AND HOW THEY PINCHED.

Florian intended to run away with the money and to send for Crescence

to follow him; but his boots would not consent to the plan. So he went

to town and bought a pair of new ones. What a comfort it was! For

months he had walked with downcast eyes, carefully avoiding every

little puddle; and at last he could tread the slippery road without

fear or favor. To enjoy the change fully, he even extended his walk a

little farther than was necessary.

But soon his walks came to a sudden close. He had accidentally paid out

a perforated dollar, of a description exactly answering to that of one

designated by the man who had been robbed. That same evening the squire

came, with a beadle and a _gens d'armes_, to arrest him.

At his earnest request, Buchmaier consented to have him led through the

gardens instead of along the street.

As he walked along he complained bitterly of his misfortune, and

protested his innocence. This is usual when persons are arrested,

whether guilty or innocent. It is so natural to appeal to the humanity

of those who surround the prisoner like moving walls, ere he has

reached the heartless stones of the jail. When the Jeremiad is

finished, the answer is, invariably, "We shall see that at the proper

time: it's none of our business now." Then the unfortunate one comes to

understand that he has been asking the stone hurled by a force outside

of itself, "Why smitest thou me?"--that he has been begging the net in

which he is ensnared to pity him and set him free.

Florian had spoken without any ulterior design at first; but presently

it occurred to him that it might be well to talk in the same strain

before the judge. He therefore spoke at great length,--for lies are

easier when you have practised them than when they appear as first

efforts.

Not more than fifty florins had been found in Florian's possession; and

these, he said, he had won at play at the Horb fair. Besides the

perforated dollar, an important circumstance going to show his guilt

was the wedding-cake found in the yard: several of the girls had seen

the bride give him the present. Florian denied every thing. He had

heard somewhere that "denial was lawful in Wurtemberg;" and this maxim

comprised his entire knowledge of jurisprudence.

Many of the villagers, who previously would never have allowed

themselves to suspect any evil of Florian, now boasted loudly that they

had said ten years ago that Florian would come to no good, and revived

the memory of all the forgotten, pranks of his boyhood.

Florian meditated a flight. One night he pulled down the tile stove

which stood at the wall of his cell and formed a part of it, and

escaped by the hole thus made in the wall. His escape was just like the

crime. This brought him to the corridor, but no farther. It was locked;

and to jump out of the window was as much as his life was worth. His

eye fell on a broom which stood in a corner. Without hesitation, he

opened the window, pressed the end of the broom into the corner formed

by the junction of the tower with the side-building, balanced himself

on the handle, and slid down to the ground.

The watchman had seen him; but he crossed himself three times and ran

up the nearest alley,--for he had beheld the devil himself riding

through the air on a broomstick.

Thus Florian was free, Running up the street, he crept into a covered

sewer, tore up the earth with his hands, found the money, and ran off

through the woods.

During his imprisonment, Crescence's mother had died, and the Red

Tailor, forced to yield to one of those general bursts of neighborly

feeling which are the relieving features of village life, had allowed

his daughter to return to his house.

In the night of Florian's escape she awoke from her sleep in terror.

She had dreamed that Florian had called her out to dance, and, do what

she would, she could not get her stocking on her foot. Weeping, she sat

up in her bed and spoke the prayer for the poor souls in purgatory.

Hearing the clock strike four, she arose and did all the housework.

Before daybreak she went into the wood to get kindling. Indeed, ever

since her misfortune her activity was morbid: she seemed anxious to

compensate for the idle life of Florian. Though no thanks rewarded her

industry, she had scarcely left a nook or corner of the house not

garnered with dry sticks and fir-cones.

At the edge of the wood she found a white button, which she recognised

as belonging to Florian's jacket and secreted in her bosom. Looking

over the landscape, she said to herself, "My cross is great; and if I

were to climb to the top of the highest hill I couldn't look beyond

it."

She returned without having gathered any thing. On hearing of Florian's

flight, she wept and rejoiced: she wept because she could no longer

doubt he was a criminal, and rejoiced to know that he was free.

13.

THE GAUNTLET.

At night Florian built himself a hut of some sheaves in a harvest-field

and slept in it.

In a tavern he had stolen a knife, having at the same time concealed

twelve creutzers in the salt-cellar: with this implement he now scraped

off his mustache.

Nevertheless, he had no sooner crossed the frontier than he was

arrested. This time he did not stop to enlist the pity of the _gens

d'armes_, but defended himself with all his might and made desperate

efforts to get free: he was thrown down, however, and manacled.

He was now forwarded from circuit to circuit by the hands of the _gens

d'armes_. In silence he walked along, his right hand chained to his

right foot: he looked upon himself as upon an animal driven to the

slaughter.

But when, coming from Sulz, he issued from the Empfingen copse and

found that he was to be dragged in chains through his native village,

he fell on his knees before the _gens d'armes_ and begged him with

tears to be so merciful as to take him around outside of the village.

But the voice of authority answered "No," and Florian struck his left

hand into his eyes to blind himself to his own degradation: his right

hand rattled helplessly in the chain. Florian--the cynosure of

neighboring eyes, he who had known no keener joy than to be the object

of universal attention--was now to be exposed in these shameful

trappings and in such disgraceful company. For the first time in his

life he could have prayed that people might not have eyes to cast upon

him. As he passed the Red Tailor's house, Crescence was chopping wood

at the pile. The hatchet dropped from her hand, and for a moment she

stood paralyzed: the next instant she rushed upon Florian with open

arms and fell upon his neck. The _gens d'armes_ disengaged her gently.

"I'll go with you through the village," said Crescence, without

weeping. "You sha'n't bear your shame alone. Does the iron hurt you?

Don't fret too much, for my sake."

[Illustration: She walked by his side.]

Florian, unable to speak, motioned to her with his left hand to turn

back; but she walked by his side, as if riveted to him by an invisible

chain. The news spread through the village like wildfire. Caspar and

Babbett were standing before the Eagle: the former had a mug of beer in

his hand, and brought it to Florian to drink. The _gens d'armes_ would

not permit it. Florian begged them not to let Crescence go any farther,

and Babbett at last persuaded her to remain. All were weeping.

He went alone through the rest of the familiar streets.

George the blacksmith, prevented by the cold from sitting in front of

his door, saw him from behind his window and touched his cap from sheer

embarrassment. At the manor-house farmer's he met the French simpleton,

who pointed to his upper lip, saying, "_Mus a loni ringo._" In spite of

himself, a painful smile passed over Florian's features.

When at last he had left the last hut behind him, he vowed never to

return to his old home again.

His incarceration was now more severe than it had been: though in the

same tower as formerly, he was kept in the most secure apartment. He

often looked through the grating; but when a Nordstetter passed he

started back as if he had been shot.

As the anguish of his mind became more subdued, he tried many devices

to pass away the time. He walked about with a blade of straw standing

on his forehead: when this became easy, he added others, until at last

he could build a whole house and take it to pieces again. With much

exertion, he learned to stand out horizontally from the iron bars, and

even acquired the art of placing his knees behind his head.

One day, in looking through the grating, he saw Crescence coming

to town. Hot tears fell on the iron bars: he could not speak to

her,--scarcely give her a sign.

At night he heard a cough beneath the window, which was repeated

several times. Recognising Crescence, he returned the signal. Crescence

unwound the red ribbon which had adorned her hair since the bel-wether

dance, tied it round a letter and a stone, and flung it up to Florian,

who caught it adroitly. She went briskly away; but in the distance

Florian caught the last words of the song,--

"The fire may be extinguish'd,

Love cannot be diminish'd;

Fire burns to scathe and kill,

But love burns hotter still."

Florian never dosed an eye that night: he had a letter from Crescence,

and yet he could not read it. At the first ray of morning, he was at

the window, and read:--

"I don't know whether this letter will get into your hands or not; and

so I won't sign my name. I have been to town to get my certificate of

settlement. Betsy has got a place for me in Alsace: I'm going off the

day after to-morrow. I have had a long dress made, too. My mother is

dead, and my father is going to marry Walpurgia the seamstress. I need

not tell you that I can never forget you, even if you had done I don't

know what. If you have been bad once, you're not bad now. I know that.

Be good and patient, and bear your fate. Our Lord is my witness, I'd

gladly take it on myself. I got your father to give me your knife,

which you always liked so much; I hope, with God's blessing, to see you

work honestly with it, someday. Only don't give up hope; for then you

would be quite lost. Don't reproach yourself about what's past and

gone: that won't do any good: but be good now. With the first money I

earn I'm going to redeem your ring and my garnets. Oh, I have so much

to tell you! ten clerks couldn't write it down. I will close, and be

yours till death."

The letter was bathed in a flood of happy tears. Never till now did

Florian know the treasure he possessed in Crescence. And he had not a

little joy left, besides, for the thought that his precious knife was

safe.

14.

MISERY AND FUN.

Florian was sent to the penitentiary for six years. He was almost

pleased to lay aside his velvet roundabout and put on in place of it

the gray coat of the convict; for his favorite was thus saved for those

happy days in which he hoped to see Crescence again. Indeed, the six

years seemed a mere week to his imagination. His heart was so full of

hope again that he skipped over the interval of time as if it had been

but a span.

Monarchical governments have their advantages, and in some respects put

those of republics to shame. Here every man is fortunate as long as he

is free; but, once immured in the walls of a prison, his rights and his

comforts become every man's business, and therefore nobody's, and

society neither knows nor cares whether he is properly fed, clothed,

and watched, or whether his jailors enrich themselves on the sale of

the food he should eat, or make his ordinary comforts contingent

upon the alacrity he displays in doing their menial services. In

Europe it is otherwise. There the government, and its hirelings the

office-holders, consider every individual their natural enemy so long

as he lives on his own exertions, and withholds a fragment of his

existence from the surveillance of the high and mighty. With

unrelenting taxation, and interminable regulations, prohibitions, and

prescriptions, they waste his substance and goad him into prison; but,

once there, their wishes are accomplished, and they treat him

henceforth with paternal kindness. Favors shown to prisoners can never

be regarded as concessions to civil liberty, and therefore they are

freely extended. Whoever finds his way there may calculate upon

friendly treatment. Perhaps, instead of opposing the government, it

would be better for the citizens to bring about a general measure of

criminal incarceration as the surest road to the good-will of their

sovereigns.

Still, the time passed but slowly. He learned the art of making

brushes. When at length and at last the day of delivery came, he

hastened to Crescence. He was received with open arms. With a little

money, which she had saved out of her earnings, they both travelled

from village to village as brush-makers. But soon Florian renounced

this trade for one more satisfactory to his peculiar desire for

admiration. He attended the fairs, markets, and harvest homes as

rope-dancer and juggler. His great exploit was the sword-trick, which

consisted in throwing three swords around in a circle and always

catching them by the handle: he had mastered the principle when engaged

in chopping sausage-meat. Crescence clung to him faithfully through all

this; and once, when he fell from the rope and broke his leg, she

nursed him with the most tender care.

After this he purchased a gambling-table and frequented the markets and

harvest-homes of the adjoining countries of Germany,--the game of dice

having been, in the mean time, prohibited in Wurtemberg. It is the

peculiar good fortune of Germany that every one may cultivate his

besetting sin there to his heart's content, if he can only find the

proper principality. What would have become of Florian had he not been

a son of that favored country? He could not have made a living out of

that which had first led to his ruin. Whenever this occurred to him, he

raised his voice, as if to encourage himself: his morsel of French

stood him in good stead,--for it is the most respectable dress for

immorality that was ever fashioned.

"_Messieurs, faites votre jeu!_" he would say. "Step up, step up: play

here, gentlemen. _Messieurs_, eight creutzers for one creutzer: one

creutzer has eight young ones. _La fortune_, _la fortune_, _la

fortune!_ A creutzer is nothing: out of nothing God made the world: out

of no money money will come. Step up, _Messieurs: faites votre jeu!_"

Often, when his tricks began to pall on the taste of the crowd, and he

found time to observe the young fellows dancing and making merry, a

two-edged sword would pierce his heart: he had been like them once, and

like the finest among them; and now he was a despised joker for the

amusement of others. To banish such thoughts, he would grow, more and

more extravagant in his sallies, and endeavor to persuade himself that

he was doing it all for his own edification.

Of four children, only two survived,--the oldest boy and a little girl.

Never would Florian suffer them to look at him when he drove his trade.

They were kept in a barn or a farmer's room, with the household goods

of the family.

Once only Crescence took courage to suggest that it might be for the

advantage of their children if they were to go home and try to support

themselves there by their daily labor.

"Don't talk of it," said Florian, gnashing his teeth: "ten horses

wouldn't drag me up the Horb steep again. I lost my honor there; and

never, never will I look at the Nordstetten steeple again!"

15.

A CHILD LOST AND A FATHER FOUND.

In Braunsbach by the Kocher, opposite Maerxle's house, is a

linden-tree, toward which a strolling family might have been seen

making their way one Sunday afternoon. The father--a powerful man, in a

blue smock and gray felt hat numerously indented--was drawing a cart

which contained a whetstone and some household-utensils. A gaunt, brown

dog, of middle size, was his yokefellow. The woman assisted in helping

the cart forward by pushing from behind. The two children followed,

carrying some dry sticks gathered along the road. Arrived at the tree,

the man took off the strap by which he was harnessed, threw his hat on

the ground, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and sat down with

his back resting against the tree. Though much altered, we cannot but

recognise Florian and his family.

[Illustration: Florian and his family.]

The dog had lain down beside him, resting his head on his fore-paws.

The boy caressed him.

"Leave Schlunkel alone now, Freddie," said Florian. "Go and help your

mother."

The boy obeyed quickly: he knew that his father was out of humor by his

calling the dog "Schlunkel,"--for whenever Florian was ill at ease he

tortured himself by giving to the sharer of his burden the name of the

man who had first made him unhappy.

Crescence, meantime, had taken the stand and the kettle from the cart,

had made a fire and placed the kettle filled with water upon it.

"Go and got us some potatoes," said she to Freddie. He took a pot and

went up to a house which looked down upon their resting-place. The

beams of the framework in the walls--visible, as is always the case in

that part of the country--were painted a bright red. An elderly man was

looking out of the window.

"Won't you be so kind," asked Freddie, "as to give us some potatoes?

God reward you!"

"Where are you from?" asked the man, who looked as if he had eaten a

good dinner.

"My father always says, 'From the place where people are hungry too.'"

"Is that your father down there?"

"Yes: but don't be too long about it if you want to give us any thing,

for our wood's all burning away."

The man came down and opened the door: the neighbors wondered how Peter

Mike came to open his house to a beggar.

Freddie soon came out again with a potfull of potatoes and a little

lard in a bowl. Soon the boiled potatoes became a porridge, and after

all the family had dined the dog received permission to lick the

plates.

Florian arose, and passed through the village, crying, "Scissor-grinder

from Paris!" Freddie went from house to house to get work, promising

the best of Parisian edge. And, without doubt, Florian was perfectly

master of his new trade.

Peter Mike spent the afternoon in following the scissor-grinder from

place to place. It gave him pleasure to follow his agile motions and

hear the pretty tunes he whistled. He also chatted a little with the

woman and the children. At dark he even tendered them his barn as a

night's lodging. All the village cried, "A judgment! a judgment! Stingy

Peter Mike is getting kind!" And yet this was but a trifle compared

with what followed. Peter Mike sat down with them in the barn, and

said, "Let me keep this boy of yours. I'll do well by him. What do you

say to it?"

Seeing them look at each other in astonishment, he went on:--"Sleep on

it, and tell me what you think of it in the morning."

Florian and Crescence talked for half the night without coming to any

conclusion. The mother, much as her inclination protested against it,

was ready to give up her child, in order to give it a prospect in life,

and the hope, at least, of an ordinary education.

Florian said little, but looked at the boy as he slept in the

moonlight, looking very beautiful.

"He'll be a rouser some day," he said at last, turned over on his side,

and fell asleep.

It may seem strange that Peter Mike, with such a reputation for

avarice, should suddenly offer to adopt the child of a stroller; nor

was charity his only motive. He was alone and childless,--had rented

out his fields, and lived upon his income. His brother's children--the

only kindred he had--had offended him in someway; and he wished to mark

his displeasure by the adoption of a stranger's child. Besides, the boy

with the clear blue eyes had inspired him with an unaccountable

affection.

At daybreak Peter Mike was at the barn-door, and asked whether they

were awake. Being answered in the affirmative, he requested Florian and

Crescence to come up to his room, in order to discuss the question.

They complied.

"Well, how is it? Have you made up your minds?" he asked.

"Why," said Florian, "the plain English of it is, we should like to

give up the boy very well, because he would be in good hands with you

and could learn something; but it won't do: will it, Crescence?"

"Why won't it do?"

"Because we want the boy in our business; and we must live too, you

know,--and our little girl."

"See here," said Peter Mike: "I'll show you that I mean you well. I'll

give you a hundred florins,--not for the boy, but so that you can go

about some other business,--a trade in dishes, or something of that

kind. A hundred florins is something. What do you say?"

The parents looked at each other sorrowfully.

"Crescence, do you talk. I've nothing more to say: whatever you do, I'm

satisfied."

"Why, I don't think the boy'll want to stay and leave us. You mean

well, I know that; but the child might die of home-sickness."

"I'll ask him," said Peter Mike, leaving the parents more astonished

than ever; for habitual poverty deprives people of the power of forming

resolutions, and makes them surprised to find this faculty in others.

Neither spoke: they dreaded the forthcoming answer, whatever it might

be.

Peter Mike returned, leading Freddie by the hand. He nodded

significantly, and Freddie cried, "Yes, I'll stay with cousin: he's

going to give me a whip and a horse."

Crescence wept; but Florian said, "Well, then, let's go; what must be,

the sooner it's done the better."

He went down-stairs, packed the cart, and hitched the dog. Peter Mike

brought him the money.

When all was ready, Crescence kissed her son once more, and said,

weeping, "Be a good boy, and mind your cousin: go to school and learn

your lessons. Perhaps we shall come back in winter."

Florian turned his head away when his son took his hand, and tightened

the strap by which he pulled the cart. Freddie put his arms round the

dog's head and took leave of him.

[Illustration: Florian pushed the glass over to Crescence.]

Not a word was spoken until they reached Kochersteinfeld: each mentally

upbraided the other for having made so little opposition. Here they

rested, and Florian called for a pint of wine to cheer their spirits.

Taking a long draught, he pushed the glass over to Crescence, bidding

her do the same. She raised the glass to her lips, but set it down

again and cried, weeping aloud, "I can't drink: it seems as if I had to

drink the blood of my darling Freddie."

"Don't get up such a woman's fuss now: you ought to 've said that

before. Let's sleep over it: we shall feel better tomorrow."

As if to escape from their own thoughts, they never stopped till they

got to Kuenzelsau. On the way they held counsel as to the best

investment of their money, and agreed to act upon the advice of Peter

Mike.

Next day they set out for Oehringen; but suddenly Florian stopped and

said, "Crescence, what do you say to turning round and going back for

Freddie?"

"Yes, yes, yes! come."

In a moment the cart was headed the other way, and the dog leaped up

Florian's side, as if he knew what was going on. But suddenly Crescence

cried, "Oh, mercy, mercy! He'll never let us have him: there's a whole

florin gone,--the night's lodging; and I've bought Lizzie a dress!"

"O women and vanity!" groaned Florian. "Well, we must try it, anyhow.

I'm bound to have my Freddie back."