Antonia’s colourless face, which had flushed slightly at the suddenness of the contretemps, regained its habitual serene delicacy of hue, as she calmly observed—
‘The Count von Schätterheims and I have been practising German duets for a matinée that Mrs. Folleton gives next week, and that all Sydney is wild about. It is quite a treat to have the aid of one who understands the genius of the poetry and music so thoroughly. Permit me to introduce you to the Count, Mr. Neuchamp.’
The foreign nobleman, a tall, fair man, with a moustache like a Pandour, bowed graciously, and resumed the musical subject.
‘Ah! I did know Mendelssohn so well as mine fader. He lif at our house when he come to Munich. He always say I was born for a maestro.’
‘And why did you not fulfil his prediction, Count?’ asked Antonia, much interested.
‘De sword,’ said Von Schätterheims with a grave, sad air. ‘You vill comprehent, he vas too moosh for de lyre. I join de movement of freedom. I haf commant, wit poor Körner. He die in dese arms.’
‘The lyre—ahem!’ said Ernest, smiling grimly at his utterly unjustifiable mot, ‘has reasserted his right, I should say. Did not Körner die in 18—?’ (Here he quoted the memorable ‘Sword Song’ in the original.)
‘Ha!’ said the Count, a new expression, not only of satisfaction, pervading his features, ‘thou hast seen the Faderland. No Englander ever learned a so heimlich acsend who drank not in youth the beer at Studenten-Kneipe—we must have Brüderschaft. Is it not so?’
‘Do you think we can manage “Die Schwalben,” Count?‘ asked Antonia.
‘But I haf bromiss to be at the house of Madame Folleton, to hear mademoiselle bractise dat leedle Folks-lied. Besites, we read Heine togeder. She is aisthetig—yaas—to de tips of her finkers. Adieu!’