Two men now came by, lifted the tree upon a barrow and carried it away.  Meanwhile Mozart had taken a piece of paper from his pocket-book, and, as the gardener did not stir, began to write: 

   “Dear Madam.—­Here I sit, miserable, in your Paradise, like Adam of
  old, after he had tasted the apple.  The mischief is done, and I cannot
  even put the blame on a good Eve, for she is at the inn sleeping the
  sleep of innocence in a canopy-bed, surrounded by Graces and Cupids.  If
  you require it I will give you an account of my offense, which is
  incomprehensible even to myself.

  “I am covered with confusion, and remain

  “Your most obedient servant,

  “W.  A. MOZART.

  “On the way to Prague.”

He hastily folded the note and handed it to the impatient servant.

The fellow had scarcely gone when a carriage rolled up to the opposite side of the palace.  In it was the Count, who had brought with him, from a neighboring estate, his niece and her fiance, a young and wealthy Baron.  The betrothal had just taken place at the house of the latter’s invalid mother; but the event was also to be celebrated at the Count’s palace, which had always been a second home to his niece.  The Countess, with her son, Lieutenant Max, had returned from the betrothal somewhat earlier, in order to complete arrangements at the palace.  Now corridors and stairways were alive with servants, and only with difficulty did the gardener finally reach the antechamber and hand the note to the Countess.  She did not stop to open it, but, without noticing what the messenger said, hurried away.  He waited and waited, but she did not come back.  One servant after another ran past him—­waiters, chambermaids, valets; he asked for the Count, only to be told “He is dressing.”  At last he found Count Max in his own room; but he was talking with the Baron, and for fear the gardener would let slip something which the Baron was not to know beforehand, cut the message short with:  “Go along, I’ll be there in a moment.”  Then there was quite a long while to wait before father and son at last appeared together, and heard the fatal news.

“That is outrageous,” cried the fat, good-natured, but somewhat hasty Count.  “That is an impossible story!  A Vienna musician is he?  Some ragamuffin, who walks along the high-road and helps himself to whatever he sees!”

“I beg your pardon, sir.  He doesn’t look just like that.  I thinks he’s not quite right in the head, sir, and he seems to be very proud.  He says his name is ‘Moser.’  He is waiting downstairs.  I told Franz to keep an eye on him.”

“The deuce!  What good will that do, now?  Even if I should have the fool arrested, it wouldn’t mend matters.  I’ve told you a thousand times that the front gates were to be kept locked!  Besides, it couldn’t have happened if you had had things ready at the proper time!”