r a month in which
he had not been visible, he answered, 'I am going to be happy,' and
passed on.

"Evening having arrived, he bought a magnificent scarf and new
epaulettes, returned home to dress, took the greatest pains with his
toilette, and then went, adorned with his uniform, to the palace
Servilio. The ball was magnificent: every one except the officers of the
garrison had come disguised, according to the injunction in the cards of
invitation; and this multitude of varied and elegant costumes, mingling
and moving to the sound of a numerous orchestra, presented the most
brilliant and animated appearance. Franz traversed all the halls,
approached all the groups and cast his eyes upon all the women. Several
were remarkably beautiful, but none seemed to him worthy to arrest his
regard. 'She is not here,' he said to himself. 'I was sure of it: it is
not yet her hour.' He placed himself behind a column near the principal
entrance and waited, his eyes fixed on the door. Many times it opened,
many women entered, without causing the heart of Franz to throb, but at
the moment when the clock struck eleven he started and cried out, loud
enough to be heard by his neighbors, 'There she is!'

"All eyes turned toward him, as if to ask the meaning of his
exclamation. But at the same moment the doors opened abruptly, and a
woman who entered attracted all attention toward herself. Franz
recognized her immediately. It was the young girl of the picture,
dressed like a dogess of the fifteenth century, and rendered still more
beautiful by the magnificence of her costume. She advanced with a slow
and majestic step, looking about her with assurance, and saluting
nobody, as if she had been the queen of the ball. No one except Franz
knew her, but every one, conquered by her marvelous beauty and her lofty
air, stood respectfully aside, and almost bowed down before her passage.
Franz, at once dazzled and enchanted, followed her at a sufficient
distance. At the moment she arrived in the last hall a handsome young
man wearing the costume of Tasso was singing, accompanying himself on
the guitar, a romance in honor of Venice. She walked straight toward
him, and looking; fixedly at him asked him who he was that dared to wear
such a costume and to sing of Venice. The young man, overwhelmed by her
look, turned pale, bent his head and handed her his guitar. She took it,
and drawing her fingers, white as alabaster, across the strings, she
intoned in