Count Max inherited from both father and mother a lively imagination, and had, besides, talent and inclination for belles lettres.  As an officer he was distinguished rather for his learning and culture than because of fondness for military life.  He was well read in French literature, and at a time when German verse was of small account in the higher circles had won appreciation for uncommon ease of style—­writing after such models as Hagedorn and Goetz.  The betrothal had offered him, as we already learned, a particularly happy occasion for the exercise of his gifts.

He found Madame Mozart seated at the table, where she had already begun the meal, talking with the inn-keeper’s daughter.  She was too well used to Mozart’s habits of forming acquaintances and accepting impromptu invitations to be greatly surprised at the appearance and message of the young officer.  With undisguised pleasure she prepared to accompany him, and thoughtfully and quickly gave all necessary orders.  Satchels were repacked, the inn-keeper was paid, the postilion dismissed, and, without too great anxiety over her toilet, she herself made ready, and drove off in high spirits to the palace, never guessing in what a strange fashion her spouse had introduced himself there.

He, meanwhile, was most comfortably and delightfully entertained.  He had met Eugenie, a most lovely creature, fair and slender, gay in shining crimson silk and costly lace, with a white ribbon studded with pearls in her hair.  The Baron, too, was presented, a man of gentle and frank disposition, but little older than his fiancee and seemingly well suited to her.

The jovial host, almost too generous with his jests and stories, led the conversation; refreshments were offered, which our traveler did not refuse.  Then some one opened the piano, upon which Figaro was lying, and Eugenie began to sing, to the Baron’s accompaniment, Susanne’s passionate aria in the garden scene.  The embarrassment which for a moment made her bright color come and go, fled with the first notes from her lips, and she sang as if inspired.

Mozart was evidently surprised.  As she finished he went to her with unaffected pleasure.  “How can one praise you, dear child,” he said.  “Such singing is like the sunshine, which praises itself best because it does every one good.  It is to the soul like a refreshing bath to a child; he laughs, and wonders, and is content.  Not every day, I assure you, do we composers hear ourselves sung with such purity and simplicity—­with such perfection!” and he seized her hand and kissed it heartily.  Mozart’s amiability and kindness, no less than his high appreciation of her talent, touched Eugenie deeply, and her eyes filled with tears of pleasure.

At that moment Madame Mozart entered, and immediately after appeared other guests who had been expected—­a family of distant relatives, of whom one, Franziska, had been from childhood Eugenie’s intimate friend.