“I could forgive for once.”

“Very well, then; I shall not neglect my opportunity.  But you need not be alarmed, Herr Baron.  There is no danger as long as the god does not lend me his countenance and his long yellow hair.  I wish he would.  I would give him on the spot Mozart’s braid and his very best hair-ribbon besides.”

“Apollo would have to be careful, in future, how he gracefully laved his new French finery in the Castalian fountain,” laughed Franziska.

With such exchange of jests the merriment grew; the wines were passed, many a toast was offered, and Mozart soon fell into his way of talking in rhyme.  The Lieutenant was an able second, and his father, also, would not be outdone; indeed, once or twice the latter succeeded remarkably well.  But such conversations cannot well be repeated, because the very elements which make them irresistible at the time—­the gaiety of the mood and the charm of personality in word and look—­are lacking.

Among the toasts was one proposed by Franziska’s aunt—­that Mozart should live to write many more immortal works.  “Exactly!  I am with you in that,” cried Mozart, and they eagerly touched glasses.  Then the Count began to sing—­with much power and certainty, thanks to his inspiration: 

  “Here’s to Mozart’s latest score;
  May he write us many more.”

  Max.

  “Works, da Ponte, such as you
  (Mighty Schikaneder, too),”

  Mozart.

  “And Mozart, even, until now
  Never thought of once, I vow.”

  The Count.

  “Works that you shall live to see,
  Great arch-thief of Italy;
  That shall drive you to despair,
  Clever Signor Bonbonniere.”

  Max.

  “You may have a hundred years,”

  Mozart.

  “Unless you with all your wares,”

  All three, con forza.

  “Straight zum Teufel first repair,
  Clever Monsieur Bonbonniere.”

The Count was loth to stop singing, and the last four lines of the impromptu terzetto suddenly became a so-called “endless canon,” and Franziska’s aunt had wit and confidence enough to add all sorts of ornamentation in her quavering soprano.  Mozart promised afterward to write out the song at leisure, according to the rules of the art, and he did send it to the Count after he returned to Vienna.

Eugenie had long ago quietly examined her inheritance from the shrubbery of “Tiberius,” and presently some one asked to hear the new duet from her and Mozart.  The uncle was glad to join in the chorus, and all rose and hastened to the piano, in the large salon.

The charming composition aroused the greatest enthusiasm; but its very character was a temptation to put music to another use, and indeed it was Mozart himself who gave the signal, as he left the piano, to ask Franziska for a waltz, while Max took up his violin.  The Count was not slow in doing the honors for Madame Mozart, and one after another joined in the dance.  Even Franziska’s aunt became young again as she trod the minuet with the gallant Lieutenant.  Finally, as Mozart and the fair Eugenie finished the last dance, he claimed his promised privilege.