“A bed fit for the Roman Emperor,—and as for the rest?—I told you, nothing but feasting. Unluckily, the fun will be all over to-night, but to go without paying my respects to you.... Zounds! is that the little fellow—the Hop-o’my-Thumb-who pressed forward to the muster-table at Emmendingen?”
“Certainly, certainly.”
“Zounds, he has grown. We’ll gladly enlist you now, young sir. Can you remember me?”
“Of course I do,” replied Ulrich. “You sang the song about ‘good fortune.’”
“Have you recollected that?” asked the lansquenet. “Foolish stuff! Believe it or not, I composed the merry little thing when in great sorrow and poverty, just to warm my heart. Now I’m prosperous, and can rarely succeed in writing a verse. Fires are not needed in summer.”
“Where have you been lodged?”
“Here in the ‘old cat.’ That’s a good name for this Goliath’s palace.”
When Eitelfritz had enquired about the jester and drunk a goblet of wine with Moor and Ulrich, he took leave of them both, and soon after the artist went to the city alone.
At the usual hour Isabella Coello came with her duenna to the studio, and instantly noticed the change Sophonisba’s portrait had undergone.
Ulrich stood beside her before the easel, while she examined his work.