It was on a fine day, in the early spring of 1796, that orders reached Salzburgh for the march of these Hungarian hussars.  They were to traverse the Tyrol, and to join the army of Italy.  They were to march at sunrise on the following morning; and Count Adony, collecting all the acquaintances of the corps in the town and neighbourhood, gave the Hungarian officers a farewell banquet and ball; preparations for which, in anticipation of their early departure, Beatrice had already directed.

Beatrice was the radiant queen of this fair festival; and it was strange to think, that from the presence of such a being so many men were going to part without one lover’s pang.  Amiable, affable, natural, and full of grace, she presided over this little court of love—­serene, unmoved, herself.  Yet any thoughtful and suspicious observer would have said, that her heart was not quite at ease; for every now and then, as the night wore on, her eyes gave less attention to those who spoke with her, and her thoughts were evidently turning inwards with trouble.  The supper was over—­the tastefully decorated table was deserted—­and the guests were again assembled in the ball-room.  Fond partners that might never dance with each other again, stood side by side—­hand locked in hand—­and waited for the rising swell of the tender music, to which they were to dance their last waltz.  Beatrice stood up with her cousin Count Zichy, and deadly pale she looked.  The Count and all others thought she had a headach, and would have had her sit down; but she persisted, with a faint smile, in doing the last honours.

Just at this very moment a manly young officer, whose dress denoted that he had been on duty, and was ready again to mount and go forward, came in to make a report to the colonel.

As the first bars of the music were heard, he stood aside, his cap in his hand, and looked on.  Already, however, a young brother officer had run from his partner’s side, to renew to him, with all extravagance of gratitude, his thanks for having, by an exchange of duty, enabled him to enjoy a last, long parting with the girl he loved.  The dance went forward, and Julius Alvinzi leaned cheerfully upon his sabre.  Suddenly Count Zichy and his fair cousin broke out from the large circle, and setting to him, he was led off to the waltz movement before he had time to ungird his sword.  This, however, even as he danced, he gracefully effected; and afterwards for one tour of waltzing, Beatrice Adony was the partner of Julius Alvinzi, quitting for the time her own.

This is a custom, in Germany, so common, and seemed so natural and so kind a courtesy to Julius, under the particular circumstances of his late and short appearance at the ball, that neither himself, nor any one in the room, attached to it any other character than that of a pretty and gentle compliment.  But if the ear of Julius had been quickened by the faintest spark of sympathy, he might have heard the very heart of Beatrice beat.