"Exactly," applauded Franziska, who was standing behind Mozart's chair. Turning to him, she continued, "Do you see that bough heavy with fruit, bending down toward the god?"
"Yes; that is the olive-tree, which was sacred to him."
"Not at all. Those are the finest oranges. And in a moment—in a fit of abstraction—he will pick one."
"Instead," cried Mozart, "he will stop this roguish mouth with a thousand kisses." And catching her by the arm he vowed that she should not go until she had paid the forfeit—which was promptly done.
"Max, read us what is written beneath the picture," said the Countess.
"They are verses from a celebrated ode of Horace.[32] The poet Ramler, of Berlin, made a fine translation of them a while ago. It is in most beautiful rhythm. How splendid is even this one passage:
"—And he, who never more
Will from his shoulders lay aside the bow,
Who in the pure dew of Castalia's fountain
Laves loosened hair; who holds the Lycian thicket
And his own native wood—
Apollo! Delian and Pataréan King."
"Beautiful!" exclaimed the Count, "but it needs a little explanation here and there. For instance, 'He who will never lay aside the bow,' would, of course, mean in plain prose, 'He who was always a most diligent fiddler.' But, Mozart, you are sowing discord in two gentle hearts."
"How so?"
"Eugenie is envying her friend—and with good reason."