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This induced him to enter upon a speculation, in which we find him still engaged. He went to Stuttgard in company with Anselm Meyer, Betsy’s father, and bought old clothes to make new ones of. He particularly affected the old scarlet swallow-tail coats of the court footmen, in procuring which Anselm was of great assistance to him, as he had made acquaintances in high places in the times when all things wanted for the court were obtained on the contract-system. These liveries were cut up into red waistcoats for the peasants, such as are worn in the Black Forest to this day. They also purchased the old uniforms of the officers, and transformed the red lining of the warrior’s habiliments into vestments for the peaceful shepherd. It was said, however, that Anselm managed to monopolize the lion’s share of the profits, besides securing an additional commission at the hands of the illustrious venders.

From the time that Balt went out of fashion and the fortunes of the house began to ebb, the couple ceased the practice of ever exchanging a word of good feeling. Balt was scarcely permitted to hold a spoon in his hand long enough to eat his dinner. He could hardly call his soul his own; and, though nominally the master-tailor, he had not the power to cut a piece of bacon to his liking of a Sunday. Wherever he was, he was in his wife’s way: she was absolute mistress, for she went on a trip every fall, and after her return the establishment always showed symptoms of a good supply of funds.

The children clung to the mother, of course, for not only had Balt fallen from his high estate, but he was not much at home. He hardly showed himself, except to eat and sleep. The former was well salted with pithy conversation, and the latter soothed with a well-ordered lecture.

Crescence now looked contemptuously at her father. The geometer entered, and at once the father and mother ran over with the milk of human kindness and loved each other tenderly. Crescence alone looked sad, and her lips trembled.

“Hurry, Crescence, and get dressed,” said her mother. “Mr. Geometer, will you take dinner with us to-day? Do, please. It’s nothing much, to-be-sure,–sourcrout, dumplings, and ham; but you’ll like it for all that: Crescence did the cooking.” A shrill giggle accompanied almost every word, the effect of which was further enhanced by a way the good lady had of twitching her nose as she spoke.

Balt exerted all his eloquence, and almost resorted to “gentle compulsion,” to induce the geometer to stay. He took his hat out of his hand and refused to return it, well knowing that if the geometer stayed there would not only be a peaceful dinner, but perhaps also a quart of beer. This hope was realized. Cordele, the youngest daughter, was sent to the Eagle, and returned with a bottle under her apron,–a concealment not owing to any scruple of public opinion on the subject of temperance, but to that desire to make a secret of every thing which arises in every village as a foil to the habitual endeavor of everybody to know every thing about everybody else’s business.

Crescence, finely dressed, but with eyes inflamed with weeping, brought the dinner. To guard against inquiries, she complained of smoke in the kitchen. Thus the dinner was richly spiced with falsehood. Before the geometer had half cleared his plate the worthy hostess put another piece upon it. He thanked her heartily for this hospitality, not perceiving that the good lady had only removed the savory morsel to snatch it away from her lord and master, who had honored it with his preference. From a similar motive, she took such excellent care to keep the guest’s glass replenished that very little of the beverage came to the tailor’s lips. The conversation was carried on by the lady of the house and the geometer exclusively. When the latter narrated the insolence of Florian, Crescence blushed, but found an excuse for leaving the table.