“Ah! c’est bien dit, sur mon honneur!” cried Scherbitz.
“Is it not?” returned the groom, self-complacently; “it is composed by our best poet, and I paid for it five august d’ors, besides a tun of stadt beer.”
“Here’s to the ‘radiant neck,’” cried one of the guests with a laugh. All joined in the toast, and the glasses clashed.
Hasse rose from his seat, and approaching the table, said, with a courtly bow—
“Messieurs! I commend myself to your remembrance, one and all! To-morrow early I leave Dresden, to return to Italy, perhaps for ever.”
The company were astonished. An officer asked—“How, Monsieur Hasse—you leave us? And your lady—?”
“Remains here,” interrupted Hasse, with a smile of bitterness. There was universal silence. Hasse, turning to Friedemann, and offering him his hand, said mildly, though earnestly—“Farewell, Bach! Present my adieus to your esteemed father, and tell him he may depend on hearing something good, one day, of the disciple of Scarlatti. May Heaven keep you from all evil!” He then, visibly affected, left the room.
Friedemann looked after him with much emotion, and murmured, “Poor wretch! and yet, would I not exchange with him? I might be the gainer!”
Peals of laughter interrupted him; they were occasioned by the comical groom, who, scarcely master of his wits, was going over the secret chronique scandaleuse, to the amusement of his auditors, relating the most surprising events, in all which he had been the hero, though few of them redounded to his honor. From these he went on to others; from the chronique scandaleuse to the disputes of the artists; in all matters of gossip proving himself thoroughly at home, and, finally, as the crown of all his merits, avowing himself a devoted adherent of Voltaire, whose epoch had then just commenced. The chamberlain received a full tribute of applause; the clapping of hands, cries of “bravo!” and fresh toasts, attested the approbation of the spectators at his speech, not the less, that the speech was in part unintelligible. At length he fell back in his seat quite overcome, and was asleep in a few moments. This was just what his mischievous friends desired. They stripped him of his gay court dress, and put on a plain one; some wild young men then carried him out of the house, and delivered him into the custody of the watch, as a drunken fellow whom no one knew, to be taken to the great guard-house. The company then amused themselves with imagining the terror and despair of the poor groom, when, awakening on New-year’s morning, he should find himself in his new quarters.
The last hour of the old year struck, like a warning, amid the mirth and festivity of those guests; they heeded it not. Clamorous revelry filled up that awful interval between the departing and the coming time; revelry echoed the stroke of the first hour in the new year, mingled with the tumult of the storm that raged without; nor was the bacchanalian feast at an end till the morning broke, troubled and gloomy. The revellers then, one after another, reeled homewards; Friedemann Bach alone retained the steadiness of his gait, and his self-possession. The youthful vigor of his frame enabled him to withstand the effects of a night’s festivity; but the bitter contempt with which he had early learned to look upon the ordinary efforts and impulses of men, found sufficient to nourish its growth.