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Florian And Crescence
by
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.”