have interrupted the most perfect tableau of the description which the late Hoffmann gives on page 347 of the Ladies’ Annual for 1816 of the finest of Hummel’s pictures exhibited in the autumn of 1814 at the Berlin Art-Exposition!” But it did no good.  “What do I care,” the young man retorted, “for your tableau of tableaux!  My picture any one may have; my sweetheart I choose to keep for myself.  Oh, you faithless, false-hearted girl!” he went on to his poor companion, “you fine critic to whom a painter is nothing but a tradesman, and a poet only a money-maker; you care for nothing save flirtation!  May you fall to the lot, not of an honest artist, but of an old Duke with a diamond-mine and beplastered with gold and silver foil!  Out with the cursed note that you tried to hide from me!  What have you been scribbling?  From whom did it come, or to whom is it going?”

But the girl resisted him steadfastly, and the more the other young men present tried to soothe and pacify the angry lover, the more he scolded and threatened; particularly as the girl herself did not restrain her little tongue, until at last she extricated herself, weeping aloud, from the confused coil, and unexpectedly threw herself into my arms for protection.  I immediately assumed the correct attitude; but since the rest paid no attention to us, she suddenly composed her face and whispered hastily in my ear, “You odious Receiver! it is all on your account.  There, stuff the wretched note into your pocket; you will find out from it where we live.  When you approach the gate, at the appointed hour, turn into the lonely street on the right hand.”

I was too much amazed to utter a word, for, now that I looked closely, I recognized her at once; actually it was the pert lady’s-maid of the Castle who had brought me the flask of wine on that lovely Sunday afternoon.  She never looked as pretty as now, when, heated by her quarrel, she leaned against my shoulder, and her black curls hung down over my arm.  “But, dear ma’amselle,” I said in astonishment, “how do you come—­” “For heaven’s sake, hush!—­be quiet!” she replied, and in an instant, before I could fairly collect myself, she had left me and had fled across the garden.

Meanwhile, the others had almost entirely forgotten the original cause of the turmoil, and now took a pleasing interest in proving to the young man that he was intoxicated—­a great disgrace for an honorable painter.  The stout, smiling gentleman from the arbor, who was—­as I afterward learned—­a great connoisseur and patron of Art, and who was always ready to lend his aid for the love of Science, had thrown aside his baton, and showed his broad face, fairly shining with good humor, in the midst of the thickest confusion, zealously striving to restore peace and order, but regretting between-whiles the loss of the long cadenza, and of the beautiful tableau which he had taken such pains to arrange.

In my heart all was as serenely bright as on that blissful Sunday when I had played on my fiddle far into the night at the open window where stood the flask of wine.  Since the rumpus showed no signs of abating, I hastily pulled out my violin, and without more ado played an Italian dance, popular among the mountains, which I had learned at the old castle in the forest.