“No.”
“The Countess?”
“Is occupied, and it is unlikely she will see any one.”
Mozart arose and seemed about to go.
“I beg your pardon, sir,—by what right did you help yourself in this garden?”
“What?” cried Mozart; “help myself? The devil! do you believe I wanted to steal and eat that thing here?”
“Sir, I believe what I see. These fruits are counted, and I am responsible. This tree is designed by the Count to figure at an entertainment; just now it was to be carried away. I cannot let you go before having made mention of this affair, and before you explain how this happened.”
“Well, then, I will wait here. You may depend upon it.”
The gardener looked around doubtfully, and Mozart, thinking he might be manœuvring for a fee, put his hand in his pocket, but there was not a coin in it.
Two lads came up now, lifted the tree upon a barrow, and carried it away. Meanwhile our Meister had pulled out his note-book, and while the gardener did not leave his side, he wrote—