Just then the Countess, pleased and excited, entered the room with the open note in her hand.  “Do you know who is downstairs?” she exclaimed.  “For goodness’ sake, read that note!  Mozart from Vienna, the composer!  Some body must go at once and invite him in!  I’m afraid he will be gone!  What will he think of me?  You treated him very politely, I hope, Velten.  What was it that happened?”

“What happened?” interrupted the Count, whose wrath was not immediately assuaged by the prospect of a visit from a famous man.  “The madman pulled one of the nine oranges from the tree which was for Eugenie.  Monster!  So the point of our joke is gone, and Max may as well tear up his poem.”

“Oh, no!” she answered, earnestly; “the gap can easily be filled.  Leave that to me.  But go, both of you, release the good man, and persuade him to come in, if you possibly can.  He shall not go further today if we can coax him to stay.  If you do not find him in the garden, go to the inn and bring him and his wife too.  Fate could not have provided a greater gift or a finer surprise for Eugenie today.”

“No, indeed,” answered Max, “that was my first thought, too.  Come, Papa!  And”—­as they descended the staircase—­“you may be quite easy about the verses.  The ninth Muse will not desert me; instead, I can use the accident to especial advantage.”

“Impossible!”

“Not at all!”

“Well, if that is so—­I take your word for it—­we will do the lunatic all possible honor.”

While all this was going on in the palace, our quasi-prisoner, not very anxious over the outcome of the affair, had busied himself some time in writing.  Then, as no one appeared, he began to walk uneasily up and down.  Presently came an urgent message from the inn, that dinner was ready long ago and the postilion was anxious to start; would he please come at once.  So he packed up his papers and was just about to leave, when the two men appeared before the arbor.

The Count greeted him in his jovial, rather noisy fashion, and would hear not a word of apology, but insisted that Mozart should accompany him to the house, for the afternoon and evening at least.

“You are so well known to us, my dear Maestro, that I doubt if you could find a family where your name is spoken more often, or with greater enthusiasm.  My niece sings and plays, she spends almost the whole day at her piano, knows your works by heart, and has had the greatest desire to meet you, particularly since the last of your concerts.  She had been promised an invitation from Princess Gallizin, in Vienna, in a few weeks—­a house where you often play, I hear.  But now you are going to Prague, and no one knows whether you will ever come back to us.  Take today and tomorrow for rest; let us send away your traveling carriage and be responsible for the remainder of your journey.”

The composer, who would willingly have sacrificed upon the altar of friendship or of pleasure ten times as much as was asked of him now, did not hesitate long.  He insisted, however, that very early next morning they must continue their journey.  Count Max craved the pleasure of bringing Frau Mozart and of attending to all necessary matters at the inn; he would walk over, and a carriage should follow immediately.