Florian by Felix Salten Page B

said with finality.
    â€œDon’t be silly, Anton, I’ve got to get him. My wife wants Florian . . . do you understand, Anton? Well . . .”
    Anton repeated. “I don’t believe . . .”
    Neustift laid his hand on the peasant’s shoulder. “And you are to come along. You and Florian, together. What do you say to that?”
    But Anton insisted. He laughed as he said for a third time: “I don’t believe . . .”
    At that Neustift grew impatient. “Why quarrel? Fetch him and hitch him to the carriage.”
    â€œThe carriage . . . ?”
    â€œYes. Today I am permitted to drive. What do you know about that?”
    Anton whistled and Bosco rushed up, stood with head tilted, questioning.
    â€œGo fetch Florian!” Anton demanded.
    Bosco fled, and after a short while Florian came at a light canter with Bosco bounding all around him.
    The stable-master came over, and when Anton had put the harness on Florian, stepped into the carriage with Neustift. The captain took the reins. “You will be surprised, Herr Rittmeister —” That much Anton heard and then they were off.
    Naturally Bosco went along. Anton remained alone. He stared after the disappearing carriage, rubbed his chin and thought: “He won’t get Florian. . . . No, they couldn’t be so stupid as to give him away.”
    The cart came back, and with scarcely any slowing down, Florian stopped and stood like a statue.
    â€œMarvelous!” was Neustift’s verdict, climbing down. “It’s absolutely incredible! He knows everything by instinct. Why, a child could drive him.”
    Smiling contentedly, Anton busied himself with the harness, and overheard fragments of the conversation between Neustift and the stable-master.
    â€œ. . . not up to me, you know that. . . . But I am afraid there isn’t a chance. You see . . .”
    â€œ. . . willing to pay any price . . . whatever you ask . . . I’ll pay and . . .”
    â€œNot a chance. You’d better find another . . .”
    â€œI want Florian.”
    â€œ. . . another one gladly. Anyone you like. Florian is not for sale.”
    Anton led his charge into the stable. Like a conqueror Florian stepped after him.
    When Anton came out again the captain had gone.

Chapter Eight
    S EVERAL GENTLEMEN OF THE IMPERIAL Court arrived in Lipizza. Their first inquiries were after Florian. And being the first name they mentioned, Florian was the first stallion they saw. He was thoroughly gone over and then tested in harness.
    One of the gentlemen read from the stud-book: “. . . son of Berengar out of Sibyl.”
    Another, lost in admiration, who was apparently the highest in rank, asked: “Four years old . . . isn’t he?”
    â€œYes, your Excellency,” the one who had read Florian’s family tree answered. “Born on May 4, 1901. . . . Exactly four years and one month old.”
    Anton stood sadly by. Nobody took notice of a stableboy.
    Suspiciously Bosco ran to and fro, as if he sensed something ominous.
    â€œHe really trots marvelously,” the slender gray-haired important gentleman declared. “He won’t need a great deal of training to make him ready for the carriage of his Majesty.”
    â€œForgive me, your Excellency,” another ventured to say. He was smaller than the one he addressed, very slim, and had a smooth face and a brown complexion which turned almost violet at the neck.
    â€œ. . . But this Florian is really too valuable for that.”
    â€œIs that so?” said the tall one not without some irony. “Too good for the service of his Majesty? Interesting . . . very interesting.”
    The brown face grew a shade darker. “We are all in the service of his Majesty, your Excellency, men and