The Count's jest provoked a laugh, as usual, and the guests followed their hostess toward the dining-hall, where the fragrance of flowers and refreshingly cool air greeted them. They took their places at the table, Mozart opposite Eugenie and the Baron. His neighbor on one side was a little elderly lady, an unmarried aunt of Franziska's; on the other side was the charming young niece who soon commended herself to him by her wit and gaiety. Frau Constanze sat between the host and her friendly guide, the Lieutenant. The lower end of the table was empty. In the centre stood two large _epergnes_, heaped with fruits and flowers. The walls were hung with rich festoons, and all the appointments indicated an extensive banquet. Upon tables and side-boards were the choicest wines, from the deepest red to the pale yellow, whose sparkling foam crowns the second half of the feast. For some time the conversation, carried on from all sides, had been general. But when the Count, who, from the first, had been hinting at Mozart's adventure in the garden, came mysteriously nearer and nearer to it, so that some were smiling, others puzzling their brains to know what it all meant, Mozart at last took the cue. "I will truthfully confess," he began, "how I came to have the honor of an acquaintance with this noble house. I do not play a very dignified rôle in the tale; in fact, I came within a hair's breadth of sitting, not here at this bountiful table, but hungry and alone in the most remote dungeon of the palace, watching the spider-webs on the wall." "It must, indeed, be a pretty story," cried Madame Mozart. Then Mozart related minutely all that we already know, to the great entertainment of his audience. There was no end to the merriment, even the gentle Eugenie shaking with uncontrollable laughter. "Well," he went on, "according to the proverb I need not mind your laughter, for I have made my small profit out of the affair, as you will soon see. But first hear how it happened that an old fellow could so forget himself. A reminiscence of my childhood was to blame for it. "In the spring of 1770, a thirteen-year-old boy, I traveled with my father in Italy. We went from Rome to Naples, where I had already played twice in the conservatory and several times in other places. "The nobility and clergy had shown us many attentions, but especially attracted to us was a certain Abbé, who flattered himself that he was a connoisseur, and who, moreover, had some influence at court. The day before we left he conducted us, with some other acquaintances, into a royal garden, the Villa Reale, situated upon a beautiful street, close to the sea. A company of Sicilian comedians were performing there--'Sons of Neptune' was one of the many names they gave themselves.