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 comple