They told him that, though it was not his fault, he knew nothing, for the things to which they referred could not be learned in this country. The best thing was to return to his native land, whence all of them, including his father, had come, bringing their arts with them. Otherwise the only career open to him was that of an unskilled laborer. Work of this kind they undertook to find for him, so that for the time being at least he might be self-supporting. Lucas was in want of bread, but such work he scorned, revolting against it as an intolerable means for merely keeping body and soul together. If life depended on such wretched work it was not worth living. It was absurd for a man to humble himself to the level of the day-laborer for the sake of a crust of bread. His youth rose up in arms at the idea that there was no other way out. At all events he would remain resolute, and wait stubbornly for circumstances to force his hand. He would see how long he could hold out, before poverty and hunger succeeded in breaking him.

At the corner, where the Kohlmarkt empties into the little square in front of St. Michael’s Church, Lucas was suddenly brought to a standstill. The halberds of a troop of Imperial Bodyguards barred the way. Against this living fence a fairly large crowd of common people was already inquisitively pressing. Lucas quickly elbowed his way to the front. At once he surmised that some court pageant was about to take place; he loved the picturesque charm of these gorgeous and stately processions, and all unconsciously he also loved the vague yearning that such a spectacle kindled to flame in his breast.

Suddenly there was a flourish of trumpets, the clatter and beat of horses’ hooves broke on the ear, and from the maze of houses concealing the gates of the Imperial Palace, a troop of cuirassiers poured forth in a shimmering array of color, advancing to the strains of a military band. Close upon their heels came two heavy state coaches, rocking on their high-strung springs, the horses prancing beneath their trappings, impatient to break into a trot. On their boxes the coachmen calmly held the reins, while from the small windows of the coaches proud, composed faces looked down disdainfully on the mob. After them there was a gap in the procession, and Lucas, who noticed that the Bodyguards in front of him were standing more stiffly than ever to attention, concluded that the principal figure of the pageant was about to appear. Then a double row of lithe, brightly clad runners dashed lightly forward, their waving, snow-white ostrich plumes giving them the appearance of actors performing a feat. The Bodyguards presented arms with their halberds and stood massed like pillars of stone as a glittering golden coach, drawn by six huge white horses, rattled into view. Their bits sparkled with foam; nobly they tossed their heads; their powerful white bodies gleamed in the sun.

Lucas gazed upon the scene with irresistible delight, listening to the comments of the crowd.

“It’s the Archduke Ludwig who’s being sent to Florence.”

“Yes, they say he has a weak chest and has to go to a sunny climate.”

“He’s not going all that way for a bit of sunshine,” observed another with a laugh, “there’s a marriage in the offing. . . .”

“Nonsense! He’s going on a secret mission. . . .”

Still others whispered eagerly, “But we know all about Archduke Ludwig. . . . We don’t need to be told what he’s up to. . . . They’re banishing him from Court!”—“To Florence?”—“I don’t know about that . . . possibly to Florence!”

Florence!

The word sank into his heart, stirring him as it always did. He whispered it softly to himself. It hovered above him like a star of good fortune, it called to him with a cadence full of wondrous expectation and painful, urgent longing. He cast a rapid glance at the royal coach, hardly noticing the coachman or the four lackeys standing behind in their magnificent Spanish livery, like marble statues of slaves, fittings in human form, which stirred only when they were wanted.

Inside, deep in satin cushions, a slim young man in black velvet sat erect. His face was pale and drawn. Framed in ebony locks about his neck was the delicate down of some dusky fur. He held his head high and maintained a reserved and distant air, looking like some jewel locked up behind the clear crystal panes of his coach, to be gazed upon but not approached or touched.

“Why doesn’t he drive straight out through the gates by the Burgbastei?” enquired one.

“He wants to say a paternoster at the Church of the Capucines before he leaves,” was one solemn explanation, while a third vouchsafed the opinion that the Burgtor was out of the question, as the road to the south left the city at the Kärntnertor.

Softly, dreamily, Lucas whispered the word “Florence.”

Close beside the Archduke’s coach there ran a dog.