Free Florian by Felix Salten Page A

equerry. “Too bad, Countess, that you did not get the horse. Now he is of course not for sale. I’d rather see him die. Too bad.”
    Sadly Elizabeth replies: “A puzzle. Quite a puzzle.”
    Neustift adds: “Florian was the nicest foal of the whole lot. Handsome. And in splendid condition.”
    â€œHe is losing his beauty,” the older man reveals, “and from day to day he is in poorer condition. I fear the famous Florian is going to be a bitter disappointment. Isn’t that so, Ennsbauer?”
    Ennsbauer nods and calls back: “A colossal disappointment.”
    â€œMay we see him?” asks Neustift.
    â€œWhy, certainly.”
    The three walk over to the stable.
    Florian stands forlornly in his stall.
    â€œHe has lost weight,” Neustift observes, shocked.
    â€œNaturally,” Wessely speaks up, disgruntled. “He is off his feed.”
    â€œSick?” Elizabeth inquires anxiously.
    â€œNot at all.” Wessely stops his work, losing his temper altogether. “Absolutely healthy, the vet says.”
    Elizabeth opens the door. “Florian,” she calls, “Florian!”
    The stallion, who has stood in his corner with bowed head, slowly cranes his neck and peers around.
    â€œCome here to me . . . come,” Elizabeth beckons.
    Florian takes a few steps toward her. His once luminous eyes are dull and wear a sorrowful, blurred expression. He sniffs at the young woman, then at Neustift, and snorts.
    â€œNot really,” Neustift says. “He recognizes us.”
    From Elizabeth’s palm Florian kisses away a piece of sugar. She strokes his nose and his upper lip.
    â€œPoor Florian,” she whispers, “you would have had things nicer with us. We wanted to take Anton, too. . . .”
    Florian’s ears tilt forward.
    â€œAnton,” the captain repeats, “Anton and Bosco.”
    Florian thrusts his head up, his ears play, his dark eyes dart forth joyous glints of light.
    â€œAnton and Bosco . . . Anton and Bosco . . . Anton and Bosco . . .” Neustift and Elizabeth pronounce the names together, speaking softly in chorus. And Florian livens up, more and more.
    Triumphantly Elizabeth turns to the equerry. “That’s it! He is lonely, our Florian.”
    And the equerry answers with an indulgent smile: “If that’s all it is, it can easily be cured.”
    As they are leaving the stable, Florian attempts to follow them, and has to be shoved back into his stall.
    â€œHow touching!” Neustift philosophizes. “Too bad such an animal cannot speak.”
    â€œHe has spoken, our Florian,” his wife corrects him. “He has spoken quite clearly.”

Chapter Twelve
    I N A FEW DAYS ANTON arrived.
    When he received orders to proceed at once to the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, Anton was not surprised. It struck him as no more than natural that Florian should send for him. Whatever Florian wanted had to happen. Nothing in the world could be simpler.
    Anton packed his belongings. He told Bosco that they were leaving together to go to Florian, and would have sworn that Bosco understood.
    During the train ride he sat bolt upright and didn’t shut an eye all night long. For the first few hours the dog sat upright by his side, but in the end he curled up comfortably on the hard wooden seat and slept until morning. Anton tenderly laid his arm across the terrier’s neck, his hand resting on the lean flank.
    In Vienna, Anton, his bundle on his shoulder, and accompanied by his dog, marched stolidly from the station to the Spanish Riding School. It was the first time in his life that he found himself in the great, rich, beautiful capital; yet he paid no attention. He had to ask his way, stopped a few passersby to get information. But in reality he virtually guessed where he had to go.
    A battalion of infantry, parading back from the Prater, barred his passage