Andreas Read Free

know them. How he had ridden ahead as travelling courier, ordered everything, arranged everything, till the count was speechless with amazement, “he had never travelled so cheap,” and their quarters were of the best. How he spoke Flemish and Romansch and Italian, of course, as fluently as you please, and knew all about the money, and the tricks of inn-keepers and postilions—nobody could beat him there; all they could say was: “There’s no coming at your gentleman. He’s in safe hands.” And how he knew all about buying a horse, so that he could get the better of any horse-dealer, even the Hungarians, and they were the best, let alone the Germans or Walloons. And as for personal service, he was valet and barber and perruquier, coachman and huntsman, beater and loader, knew all about hounds and guns, correspondence, casting accounts, reading aloud, writing
billets
in all languages, and could serve as interpreter or, as the Turks say, dragoman. It wasa marvel that a man like him was free, and indeed the Freiherr von Petzenstein had wanted his brother to have him
à tout prix
, but he had taken it into his head to be servant to Herr von Ferschengelder—not for the wages—that was of no matter to him. But it would just suit him to be of assistance to a young gentleman making his first tour, and to win his affection and esteem. It was confidence he had set his heart on, that was the reward that a servant like him looked for. What he wanted was friendship and trust, not money. That was why he had not been able to hold out in the Imperial Cavalry, where there was nothing but tale-bearing and the stick—no trust. Here he passed his tongue over his moist, thick lip like a cat.
    At this point Andreas stopped him, saying that he thanked him for his obliging offer, but did not mean to hire a servant then. Later, perhaps, in Venice, a paid lackey—and here he made as if to shut the door, but the last sentence was already too much; that little flourish—for he had never thought of hiring a footman in Venice—took its revenge. For now the other, feeling in the uncertainty of his tone who was the real master in the dispute, blocked the door with his foot, and Andreas could never make out later how it was that the ruffian forthwith, as if the matter were already settled between them, spoke of hismount—there would be a bargain that day the like of which would never come again. That very night a horse-dealer was passing that way: he knew him from his time with the canon—not a Turk, for once. The man had a little Hungarian horse to sell which might have been made for him. Once he got that between his legs, he would make a high-stepper of it inside of a week. The bay was priced, he thought, at ninety
gulden
for any one else, but at seventy for him. That was because of the big horse-deal he had put through for the canon, but he would have to clinch the bargain that very day before midnight, for the dealer got up early. So please would his honour give him the money at once, out of his waist-belt, or should he go down and bring up his portmanteau or his saddle, for he would have his capital sewn up there—a gentleman like him would only carry the bare necessary on him?
    When the wretch spoke of money, his face took on a loathsome look; under the impudent, dirty blue eyes little wrinkles twitched like ripples on water. He came close up to Andreas, and over the protruding, moist, thick lips floated a smell of brandy. Then Andreas pushed him out over the threshold, and the fellow, feeling the young man’s strength, said no more. But again Andreas said a word too much, for he felt too rough handling the intruder thusungently. Count Lodron would never have been so rough, he thought, or laid his hands on him. So he added, partly by way of dismissal, that he was too tired today, they could think about it next morning. In any case, nothing had been settled between them for the moment.
    He meant to leave without further discussion next