Florian (21 page)

He felt ashamed as never before in his life.

Anton discovered him trembling in the straw, lifted him, wrapped him in a towel and rubbed him dry. Rolled in a warm blanket he laid him outside in the sun. Throughout this entire procedure Anton asked over and over: “What have you been up to? What happened to you?”

Bosco stuck his intelligent face out from under the enveloping woolly mountain, and would have liked to tell what evil things had befallen him, but could only whimper. Anton stroked his forehead and murmured: “There, little one, be quiet. It'll pass all right. Good Bosco. Nice Bosco.”

That soothed the disturbed soul. It almost consoled him. Almost. For there was the inexorable boundary-line between man and animal, that impassable barrier in the face of the closest intimacy. Anton had no inkling of what had inwardly shaken Bosco. He left the dog, went back to his work, and considered the trivial incident closed.

But it wasn't closed; Bosco was still madly in love. And jealousy ate at his heart. True, he had emerged victorious from the combat with his rival. That was proved by the way Tobby and all the other terriers evaded him, retreated whenever he came seeking Pretty.

Pretty lavished great tenderness on him, and inexhaustibly, in hoyden, coquettish play, now showered him with love and again repelled him with hateful disapproval, but invariably was glad of his presence. He was completely under her spell. His jealous tantrums grew milder, and disappeared. He ceased to have any reason for them. Yet he had no peace. His existence swung like a pendulum between bliss and despair. On top of that, he had pangs of conscience before Florian. After each happy or unhappy tryst with his beloved when he returned to Florian he squirmed and writhed before his great friend, whipped the straw with his tail and begged forgiveness. Of his adventure, of his passion he told nothing. He simply begged forgiveness.

Florian lowered his beautiful head, on these occasions, and sniffed at him kindly and knowingly, scented Pretty's perfume and guessed Bosco's fate. It befell every creature. . . . Of course he forgave him, even tried by a teasing snort to assert that such matters did not require forgiveness but understanding.

C
AME A DAY OF UPSETS, of quarrels, of excitement in the Mews.

Emperor Franz Joseph was sick at Schönbrunn. He had contracted a cold. The news sounded serious, thanks to certain Court factions who set exaggerated rumors going. The faction surrounding the Heir Apparent became mysteriously active. People who hoped for Franz Ferdinand's accession carried their heads higher, their necks stiffer. They gave orders where hitherto they had learned the habit of silence; they domineered where heretofore they had hemmed and hawed. Their actions implied that the succession to the throne had as good as taken place. The faithful servants of the old Emperor suffered all these things browbeaten and resigned.

On the morning of this day Anton rushed into Konrad Gruber's room. Gruber had just shaved and eyed the intruder questioningly.

“Florian is gone . . . and Capitano, too!” Anton stammered.

Gruber's mien asked him to tell more.

“I put them in harness—” Anton explained. And still getting no response he added in his own behalf: “Orders from the councilor. . . .”

Silence.

Now Anton spoke haltingly: “For—the Archdukes—Franz Ferdinand. . . .”

A wave of a hand and he bolted from the room.

Gruber grabbed the telephone and called Schönbrunn. . . . No, the colonel of the House Ministry would not do. He wanted to talk to the chief adjutant. At once! . . . When he heard that official's voice, he reported what had happened, quietly and clearly. But his voice quivered with wrath.

The adjutant chuckled. “Not really! . . . Such impatience. . . . And, praise God, much too soon.”

Emboldened by anxiety, Gruber asked: “Is he better?” his voice unsteady.

“His Majesty is out of bed. But don't tell anybody.”

That was that.

Konrad Gruber had to sit down. His knees trembled. He mopped his forehead, breathed deeply, and then started to pray, silently. His head lay on his devoutly folded hands. Only his lips moved.

Later, just as he finished dressing, the telephone rang. An order from Schönbrunn, in the name of the Emperor: “Demand the immediate return of Florian and Capitano. These horses, and all the private horses of his Majesty, must be used only for his Majesty's purposes.”

The colonel of the House Ministry repeated: “And
only
for his Majesty's purposes.”

Fully dressed, Gruber left his room and walked over to the main building to call on the councilor. On the way he observed that a few coachmen, stablemen and lower officials greeted him less respectfully than usual; some of them ignored him. He made a mental note of each one. He compressed his lips so that his mouth formed a cruel gash.

The councilor kept him waiting purposely. Gruber knew the man wanted him to feel “through.” When finally he stood in front of the desk, the councilor toyed for a long time with his papers before he asked disinterestedly: “What do you want?”

Without mincing words, Gruber said: “Have his Majesty's horses been ordered to Castle Belvedere?”

The councilor somewhat amusedly looked out of the window: “I am not accountable to you.”

“Wrong!” Gruber was slow and precise of speech. “If you have taken the liberty—”

“How dare you!” the councilor shouted. “Who are you? An ordinary coachman! You don't seem to know that your glory is at an end? And you are impudent? Get out!”

Konrad Gruber held his ground; an immovable boulder the councilor could not dislodge by shouting. After a short pause he said with the same equanimity:
“Your
glory is at an end—if you have sent the Emperor's favorite horses to Belvedere.”

Pale as a corpse the councilor listened. If Gruber spoke so definitely and unflinchingly he must know more than the others around the stables. The miracle might have happened. The eighty-year-old Emperor might have arisen from his sick-bed a healthy man.

“I am transmitting his Majesty's orders,” Gruber continued icily. “The team is to be brought back at once, and like all the other personal horses of his Majesty must not be used for any other purpose whatsoever.”

Without another word he walked out.

The secretary had heard the councilor shouting and had put his ear to the keyhole, overhearing Gruber's words. As Gruber passed through the anteroom the man bowed deferentially.

Full of desperate zeal the councilor telephoned Belvedere, telephoned wherever Franz Ferdinand might be. In a panic of haste he gave orders to send the regular carriage of the Archduke, as quickly as possible, to Breitensee. The Imperial equipage he had already ordered home from there.

As gun-cotton lights the hundred candles of a candelabra—in one puff—word of these occurrences made the round of the Mews. Just what happened at Schönbrunn, nobody knew. But everyone knew that Franz Joseph had given an order. That was enough.

Gruber stationed himself at the entrance of the stables to await the return of his horses.

Anton sat on his small portable bench in front of the door, Bosco at his feet.

Gradually a group of people came from the stables, from the carriage sheds, from the offices, and gathered around Gruber. When it was apparent that he would not engage in talk but wanted to be alone, they kept their distance.

The Imperial carriage arrived. At a comfortable trot Florian and Capitano swept up. They caused the same sort of sensation as on a first appearance.

While Anton unharnessed the horses, Gruber took a good look at the driver, Pawlitschek, who usually drove the Heir Apparent. Gruber did not say one word, but he silently vowed that Franz Ferdinand would have to get used to another driver; hereafter Pawlitschek would ride on servant and kitchen carts.

The voice of the councilor intruded upon his thoughts. “Well, there they are again, the favorite horses of his Majesty. Now everything is in order, isn't it?”

Gruber did not hear him, refused to hear him.

The councilor gulped, stepped directly up to Gruber, and said in his most unctuous tone: “It was a mistake, nothing but a mistake. Things like that can happen, after all. I beg of you, don't cause me any trouble. We always got along so well together. . . .”

Tight-mouthed, Gruber turned his back on the man, followed Anton into the stable, and shut the door behind him—something that wasn't done at this time of the year.

A week later the councilor was pensioned—without the customary service medal, with every indication of being in the equerry's bad grace. As for the coachman Pawlitschek, he drove heavy freight.

From the Belvedere, however, emanated a story its hearers accepted partly with gloating and partly with sympathy. Franz Ferdinand, it ran, had by no means been thrown into a tantrum by the incident. Quietly, deeply moved, he had thrust his hands toward the skies. The incident with the horses was immaterial to him; but the unexpected and complete recuperation of Franz Joseph had shaken his soul. “Never! It is not my destiny. He lives! He lives eternally! He will outlive me!”

Deaf to all consolation, he kept repeating: “He will live so long that it will be too late. So long that the realm will be irrevocably lost.”

F
LORIAN, CAPITANO AND A HOST of other horses—brown Kladrubers, Hungarian Juckers, ponies and Haflingers which served for mountain climbing—were unloaded early one morning at the station of Ischl.

There wasn't much time for loafing. Anton could just get a glimpse of the verdant landscape. Florian and Capitano had to be fed, watered, and after a lukewarm bath groomed with brush and currycomb.

The intimidated Bosco sat near Florian in a corner of the new stable. Gruber had instructed Anton not to allow the dog to roam at large in the park, for the children and grandchildren of the Emperor had dogs of their own; and it was better to be careful. Anton had then taken Bosco aside and for the first time catechized him sternly. Bosco didn't understand a word, but Anton's earnestness and unusually long speech had a shattering effect upon him. He was all broken up.

Court gendarmes with their horsehair-plumed helmets had taken up their positions in the park and at the doors of the Imperial villa. The House Ministry, the adjutants were installed; postal, telephone and telegraph clerks were carefully instructed; as a matter of fact most of the functionaries knew the routine from years of practice. The private detectives of the Secret Police sauntered around the grounds of the villa, along the streets and on the esplanade of Ischl. They prided themselves on their impenetrable disguises. In truth, the most rustic villager spotted them at a distance of fifty paces.

In the afternoon the Emperor arrived. On the station platform the stadholder, the district commander and the burgomaster stood in readiness. Just outside the station a large gathering waited; natives and summer guests.

In the midst of the hubbub the Imperial coach, driven by Gruber and drawn by Florian and Capitano, kept driving round and round on the roomy square in front of the station. The people cheerfully drew back on every side. Such fiery steeds couldn't and shouldn't stand still. They realized that. Florian's and Capitano's heads, the curve of their proud necks, the gold-braided bicorne Gruber wore, the empty seat for the
chasseur
beside him—made a picture of joyous expectancy.

When the train chugged into the station, Konrad Gruber held the carriage at the exit. The horses heard the shrill hiss, the powerful hoarse breathing of the engine, and swung their beautiful heads higher, making the metal of their traces jangle melodiously. The cries of acclaim that burst forth did not fluster them. Gruber had them firmly in hand; they stood like statues as Franz Joseph came through the exit. He took his place in the carriage. The general adjutant sat at his left. The agile
chasseur
climbed to the driver's box.