wait here." The gardener hesitated,
and Mozart, thinking that perhaps he expected a fee, felt in his pocket;
but he found nothing.

Two men now came by, lifted the tree upon a barrow and carried it away.
Meanwhile Mozart had taken a piece of paper from his pocket-book, and,
as the gardener did not stir, began to write:

"_Dear Madam_.--Here I sit, miserable, in your Paradise, like Adam of
old, after he had tasted the apple. The mischief is done, and I cannot
even put the blame on a good Eve, for she is at the inn sleeping the
sleep of innocence in a canopy-bed, surrounded by Graces and Cupids. If
you require it I will give you an account of my offense, which is
incomprehensible even to myself.

"I am covered with confusion, and remain

"Your most obedient servant,

"W. A. MOZART.

"On the way to Prague."

He hastily folded the note and handed it to the impatient servant.

The fellow had scarcely gone when a carriage rolled up to the opposite
side of the palace. In it was the Count, who had brought with him, from
a neighboring estate, his niece and her fiance, a young and wealthy
Baron. The betrothal had just taken place at the house of the latter's
invalid mother; but the event was also to be celebrated at the Count's
palace, which had always been a second home to his niece. The Countess,
with her son, Lieutenant Max, had returned from the betrothal somewhat
earlier, in order to complete arrangements at the palace. Now corridors
and stairways were alive with servants, and only with difficulty did the
gardener finally reach the antechamber and hand the note to the
Countess. She did not stop to open it, but, without noticing what the
messenger said, hurried away. He waited and waited, but she did not come
back. One servant after another ran past him--waiters, chambermaids,
valets; he asked for the Count, only to be told "He is dressing." At
last he found Count Max in his own room; but he was talking with the
Baron, and for fear the gardener would let slip something which the
Baron was not to know beforehand, cut the message short with: "Go along,
I'll be there in a moment." Then there was quite a long while to wait
before father and son at last appeared together, and heard the fatal
news.

"That is outrageous," cried the fat, good-natured, but somewhat hasty
Count. "That is an impossible story! A Vienna musician is he? Some
ragamuffin, who walks along the high-road and helps himself to what