Free Florian by Felix Salten Page B

along the Schwarzenbergplatz. He waited without growing impatient, and instead of watching the soldiers on their musical way, he stood transfixed, staring up at the bronze horse of the monument that dominated the square. “He is far more beautiful,” he said to Bosco. The terrier did not disagree.
    When at length he was able to proceed, he said repeatedly, “Quiet . . . wait . . . we’ll be there in no time. Not so fast.” Once he even bent down and spoke to the terrier: “Don’t be in such a hurry. Haven’t we stood it for two months? We’ll stand it another half hour.”
    Bosco could not repress his nervous impatience and became more unruly from minute to minute. His tongue hung out of his gaping mouth. He panted, tugged at the leash Anton had been forced to put on him. His master could not tell whether it was the trundling tram-cars along the boulevards that put the dog in such a feverish state, or the knowledge of the imminent reunion, or both.
    Beyond the narrow Augustinerstrasse the Josephsplatz spread its monumental expanse. Anton showed no interest. He did not waste a glance on the statue of Joseph II which rose austerely in the center of the square. He knew when he got there: this is the Imperial Palace. And he felt certain that the three mighty facades his eyes beheld comprised all the home the Emperor had.
    Who can say what impelled Anton to open the small door of the massive portal under the archway? Was it because Bosco had caught the beloved scent and begun to leap against this door? Or could it have been that Anton himself had detected the scent? In any event, the porter upon being questioned directed him toward the stable, and Anton murmured: “At last.”
    He crossed the courtyard with unhurrying steps. He merely held the leash shorter. Bosco was not to get to Florian a second sooner than he. At the entrance to the stable stood Wessely with a group of other stablemen. He greeted Anton affably and started right in. “Now we’ll see whether things improve with Florian.”
    â€œAre things bad with him, then?” Anton asked gravely.
    Bosco yowled his fretful eagerness and for his pains received so hard a jerk at the leash that he nearly fell over. “Quiet!”
    â€œAre things bad with him?” Anton repeated.
    â€œRotten!” cried Wessely, and asked the other men to bear witness. “He refuses to eat or work. Isn’t that so?”
    Herr Ennsbauer, the riding master, emerged from the stable. Anton stood at attention and gave his name as well as his destination.
    â€œA good thing you came, Pointner,” Ennsbauer remarked. “This is the last thing we are going to try with him.” And noting Anton’s dubious expression, he added: “Yes, the last thing. If this goes wrong”—he shrugged his shoulders—“well, then, we can’t do a thing with the beast.”
    Without another word Anton passed Ennsbauer by and entered the half-dark stable. He did not see that all the others followed him. In a moment he came to the ell where, stretching away to both sides, were the compartments of the horses.
    â€œRight,” came from somebody behind him.
    But Anton went no farther.
    â€œFlorian,” he called. “Florian!” And Bosco broke into a jubilant baying.
    Hooves suddenly beat against a wooden partition.
    Anton did not stir from the spot, but he released the dog.
    Wessely rushed down the corridor and swung wide the door behind which the hooves thundered. Florian broke out, almost knocking the man down. Bosco leaped high in the air, again and again, like a rubber ball, shrieking.
    There stood the white stallion, looking hoary, as he used to when still a knock-kneed foal, his forelegs slightly apart. His bushy tail lashed the air excitedly, his neck bent downward, his head near the terrier on the ground. Bosco hopped about, whimpered as if saying: “So long to be