“What is the matter with you, Hiller? Right about, you do not part from us till after sunset.”
“Let me alone!” answered the stern old man. “I cannot bear to look at the good-for-nothing fellow!”
“At whom?” Freigang followed the direction of his friend’s finger, and burst out a laughing. “Ha! Mozart!” he cried, “look yonder; there comes Hiller’s favorite!”
A man was coming towards the company; he approached with very unsteady steps, but did not perceive them till he stood directly before them. He seemed about thirty years of age, perhaps older; was slender and well formed, but his features were sharpened and pallid, and his whole person bore the marks of excessive dissipation. His oiled-cloth cap was placed sideways on his uncombed head; his coat had once been a fine one, but lacked much of the lace belonging to it, and several buttons here and there; his satin vest was frayed and torn; his rumpled collar, (the cravat was entirely wanting,) as well as the rest of his attire, bespoke a slovenly disregard to comfort or cleanliness.
“Bon jour, monsieur?” cried Freigang, as this disgusting object came near.
The man stood still, rolled up his meaningless eyes, contracted his brows, and at length shading off the sun with his hand, looked inquisitively at the speaker. After a few moments he recognized him, and with a low, ceremonious bow, from which he found it difficult to recover himself—“Most worthy sir!” he said, “at your service—I am your humble—servant!”
“You seem to be in deep thought,” observed Freigang, laughing.
“He is drunk, the wretched dog!” muttered Hiller, greatly disgusted.
“If I am not mistaken,” stammered the man, “I have the honor—to salute—the most excellent Director of music—Monsieur Hiller—yes—I am right—it is he! I am happy—to speak with your excellency! I am highly pleased at the—unexpected—pleasure of this meeting!”
“I am not,” retorted Hiller, angrily; “I would have walked a mile out of the way to avoid it. I do not feel honored at being in such company.”