“One would almost suppose,” replied the baron with a crafty smile, “that he was coming to-day on a useless errand, and meant to apply to your Majesty for the payment of his debts.”

Here the Emperor interrupted him with an angry gesture; but Malfalconnet went on soothingly:  “However, there is nothing to be feared from lambs in sheep’s clothing.  Just think, your Majesty, how warm they must be in their double dress!  No; he comes from the musicians, and apparently brings an important message.”

“Admit him, then,” the Emperor commanded.  A few minutes later Wolf stood before the sovereign, and, in Appenzelder’s name, informed him in a tone of sincere regret, yet with a certain degree of reserve, that the performance of the choir boys that day would leave much to be desired, for two of the best singers had not yet recovered.

“But the substitute, the admirable substitute?” Charles impatiently interrupted.

“That is just what troubles us,” Wolf replied uneasily.  “The magnificent new voice wishes to desert the maestro to-night.”

“Desert?” cried the Emperor angrily.  “A choir boy in the service of her Majesty the Queen of Hungary!  So there is still something new under the sun.”

“Certainly,” replied Wolf with a low bow, still striving, in obedience to the regent’s strict command, not to reveal the sex of the new member of the choir.  “And this case is especially unusual.  This voice is not in her Majesty’s service.  It belongs to a volunteer, as it were, a native of this city, whose wonderful instrument and rare ability we discovered.  But, begging your Majesty’s pardon, the soul of such an artist is a strange thing, inflammable and enthusiastic, but just as easily wounded and disheartened.”

“The soul of a boy!” cried Charles contemptuously.  “Appenzelder does not look like a man who would permit such whims.”

“Not in his choir, certainly,” said the young nobleman.  “But this voice—­allow me to repeat it—­is not at his disposal.  It was no easy matter to obtain it at all, and, keenly as the maestro disapproves of the caprices of this beautiful power, he can not force it—­the power, I mean—­to the obedience which his boys——­”

Here the Emperor laughed shrilly.  “The power, the voice!  The songstress, you should say.  This whimsical volunteer with the voice of an angel, who is so tenderly treated by rough Appenzelder, is a woman, not a refractory choir boy.  How you are blushing!  You have proved a very inapt pupil in the art of dissimulation and disguise in my royal sister’s service.  Really and truly, I am right!”

Here another bow from Wolf confirmed the Emperor’s conjecture; but the latter, highly pleased with his own penetration, laughed softly, exclaiming to the baron:  “Where were our ears?  This masquerade is surely the work of the Queen, who so dearly loves the chase.  And she forbade you too, Malfalconnet, to give me your confidence?” Again a silent bow assented.