“You will do,” said the vendor.
The Count, well pleased with his purchase, asked the Baron if he could find any instrument to suit him.
The Baron shook his head, mournfully. “I must depend on my voice; and, provided I do not catch a cold, that will, I hope, produce as much effect as your fiddle.”
“We shall see,” said the Count.
Leaving the shop, they hastened back to the Trek-Schuit, which was about to return the way they had come. The journey occupied so long a time that the shades of evening were already stealing over the landscape when they reached their inn. Though the Count was eager at once to set out for the house of Mynheer Van Arent, the Baron declared that, without his supper, he could not sing at all. By the time that was finished it was dark.
“Now,” said the Count, “let us go; even for you, Baron, I cannot wait longer.”
The Count, of course, carried his violin.
“As it is too late to present ourselves, we will remain outside among the trees. You shall play an air, and I will sing a song, and we will then go in and ascertain the effect,” said the Baron.
They soon got to a part of the shrubbery where they could effectually conceal themselves. Overhead they observed a tall tree—one of the branches of which extended to the walls of the house.
“Now,” whispered the Baron, “shall I sing, or will you commence an air on your violin?”