Part 25

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.

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."

"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."

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.