"I beg your pardon, sir," began the gardener rather angrily, as he looked at Mozart's unprepossessing clothing, "I do not know whom I have the honor—"
"Kapellmeister Mozart, of Vienna."
"You are acquainted in the palace, I presume."
"I am a stranger, merely passing through the village. Is the Count at home?"
"No."
"His wife?"
"She is engaged and would hardly see you." Mozart rose, as if he would go.
"With your permission, sir, how do you happen to be pilfering here?"
"What!" cried Mozart. "Pilfering! The devil! Do you believe, then, that
I meant to steal and eat that thing?"
"I believe what I see, sir. Those oranges are counted, and I am responsible for them. That tree was just to be carried to the house for an entertainment. I cannot let you go until I have reported the matter and you yourself have told how it happened."