Black Forest Village Stories Part 42

"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 a.s.sist 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 G.o.d!--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 G.o.d 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 chastis.e.m.e.nt 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,--