“That was not the reason.”

“No, I know.  You wanted to keep your treasure away from criticism yet a little while.”

“I am glad,” cried the good-natured host, “that we shall not need to grieve the heart of a noble Vienna coachman to-morrow, when Herr Mozart cannot arise.  The order, ‘Hans, you may unharness!’ always makes one sad.”

This indirect invitation for a longer stay, which was heartily seconded by the rest of the family, obliged the travelers to explain their urgent reason for declining it; yet they readily agreed that the start need not be made so early as to interfere with a meeting at breakfast.

They stood, talking in groups, a little while longer.  Mozart looked about him, apparently for Eugenie; since she was not there he turned naively with his question to Franziska.

“What do you think, on the whole, of our Don Juan?  Can you prophesy anything good for him?”

“In the name of my aunt, I will answer as well as I can,” was the laughing reply.  “My opinion is that if Don Juan does not set the world mad, the good Lord may shut up his music chests for years to come, and give mankind to understand—­”

“And give mankind,” corrected the Count, “the bag-pipes to play on, and harden the hearts of the people so that they worship Baal.”

“The Lord preserve us!” laughed Mozart.  “But in the course of the next sixty or seventy years, long after I am gone, will arise many false prophets.”

Eugenie approached, with the Baron and Max; the conversation took a new turn, growing ever more earnest and serious, and the composer, ere the company separated, rejoiced in many a word of encouragement and good cheer.  Finally, long after midnight, all retired; nor, till then, had any one felt weary.

Next day—­for the fair weather still held—­at ten o’clock a handsome coach, loaded with the effects of the two travelers, stood in the courtyard.  The Count, with Mozart, was waiting for the horses to be put in, and asked the master how the carriage pleased him.

“Very well, indeed; it seems most comfortable.”  “Good!  Then be so kind as to keep it to remind you of me.”

“What!  You are not in earnest?”

“Why not?”

“Holy Sixtus and Calixtus!  Constanze, here!” he called up to the window where, with the others, she sat looking out.  “The coach is mine.  You will ride hereafter in your own carriage.”

He embraced the smiling donor, and examined his new possession on all sides; finally he threw open the door and jumped in, exclaiming:  “I feel as rich and happy as Ritter Gluck.  What eyes they will make in Vienna!”

“I hope,” said the Countess, “when you return from Prague, to see your carriage again, all hung with wreaths.”

Soon after this last happy scene the much-praised carriage moved away with the departing guests, and rolled rapidly toward the road to Prague.  At Wittingau the Count’s horses were to be exchanged for post-horses, with which they would continue their journey.