“Gabriel Nietzel!” cried the count.  “Why did you not tell me so directly, you fool!  Bring him in without delay, and take care that no one disturbs us so long as the painter Gabriel Nietzel is with us.”

The lackey hurried off, leaving the door open for the painter, whom he fetched in from the first antechamber.  Breathlessly, in violent excitement, Count Schwarzenberg looked toward this open door.  “It is my future fate that is about to enter,” he murmured.  “Ah, there he is!  There is Gabriel Nietzel!” And in his vehement agitation he rushed forward a few steps to meet the painter, whom he saw approaching through the entrance hall.  But forcibly constraining himself to an appearance of moderation and reserve, he stood still and assumed a calm, unimpassioned expression.  Gabriel Nietzel entered, and behind him the lackey gently closed the door.  The sharp eyes of the count rested inquiringly upon the newcomer, who remained standing near the door with head sunk and humble, melancholy mien.  This submissive, contrite silence on the part of the returning painter was sufficiently eloquent to the mind of the count.  It told him that Gabriel Nietzel had nothing welcome to communicate.  He subdued his rage and proudly threw back his head, as if to shake off, like troublesome insects, all his disappointed hopes.

“Well, you are actually at home again, Master Court Painter!” he cried, in a tone that was well-nigh cheerful.

“Yes, your excellency,” whispered Gabriel, with downcast eyes, “here I am again, and report myself forthwith to your excellency.”

“To me?” asked Schwarzenberg, affecting astonishment.  “Why do you report yourself to me, and what have I to do with you, Sir Court Painter Gabriel Nietzel?  You should have gone to the palace, to the Electress, and gladdened her heart with your pleasing intelligence.  I doubt not that you are the bearer of glad tidings for her, and come to forewarn her of the Prince’s speedy arrival here in safety and good health?”

“I had no wish to go to her highness the Electress,” said Gabriel Nietzel humbly.  “She knows already, independently of any information from me, that the Electoral Prince is safe and sound.  I come to your excellency to excuse myself for the failure of my undertaking, and to beg your pardon.”

“I do not understand you at all, Sir Court Painter,” replied Count Schwarzenberg, shrugging his shoulders.  “I know not what sort of undertaking you had in view, what you have failed in, and what I can have to pardon you for.”

“Your excellency!” cried Gabriel with an outburst of grief—­“your excellency, I swear that I am innocent, that it has been the result of no ill will, no negligence, but because I really could not find an opportunity for carrying out what—­”

“Well, carrying out what?” asked Schwarzenberg, when Gabriel faltered.  “What do I care for your unfinished works, your abortive schemes?  I only buy finished pictures, and, if they are well executed and successes, I pay for them in kingly style.  With daubers, though, and wretched copyists who would pass off copies as originals, I have nothing to do.  Speak not to me, then, Sir Court Painter, of your sketches and designs.  I ask nothing about them, but only come to me when you have a completed work to exhibit.”