“Bravo, Madame Mara!” cried Heinrich, when he had recovered from his surprise after she had gone out. “Her ladyship likes not to find us drinking so early. Where goes she? ah! to the rehearsal; and that reminds me, Mara, of what I had nearly forgotten. We must go also; so no more wine till supper time!”
“I will not go!” said Mara, doggedly.
“Yes you will. Do you know who is to be there? The chapel-master from Vienna!”
“What do you say—Mozart?” cried the violoncellist, springing up, half sobered by surprise.
“The very same, mon cher.”
“To-day—at rehearsal?”
“Exactly; Father Doles, Hiller, Weisse and others have arranged a concert for the chapel-master, and it is to take place to-night. Master Wolfgang arrived yesterday. You must go with me to rehearsal and see him.”
“That I will, Heinrich. Do you know it has been the desire of my life to know the great Mozart? Oh, to think of his quartettes! I have painted him before me as I played the music—grand, noble, of towering form, dark, flashing eyes and trumpet voice”—
“Hold, Mara, you are out there,” interrupted Heinrich, laughing heartily. “The little Master Wolfgang never sat for such a picture! In the first place, he is not towering, but low of stature and insignificant in appearance.”
“But no less the great Mozart!” cried Mara, with enthusiasm. “The creator of Idomeneo, of Don Giovanni! I must know him, if only to tell him how I adore his music. Allons—mon ami; but stay; I must put on my coat.”