tion that was going on. I waited in the embrasure of a
door until Liszt had finished the piece he was playing with his
accustomed taste.

It was then that I saw the Princess Amelie for the first time.

I must tell you all that passed, for I feel an indescribable
pleasure in writing it.

Picture to yourself a large salon furnished with regal
splendour, brilliantly lighted up, and hung with crimson silk,
embroidered with wreaths of flowers in gold. In the first row,
on large gilt chairs, sat the Archduchess Sophia with Madame
d'Harville on her left, and the Princess Amelie on her right.
Behind them stood the duke in the uniform of colonel of the
guards. He seemed scarcely thirty, and the military uniform set
off his fine figure and noble features. Beside him was the
Archduke Stanislaus in the uniform of a field-marshal; then came
the princess's maids of honour, the ladies of the grand
dignitaries of the court, and then the dignitaries themselves.

I need scarcely tell you that the Princess Amelie was less
conspicuous by her rank than by her extraordinary beauty. Do not
condemn me without reading this description of her. Although it
falls far short of the reality, you will understand my
adoration. You will understand that as soon as I saw her I loved
her; and that the suddenness of my passion can only be equalled
by its violence and its eternity.

The Princess Amelie was dressed in a plain white watered silk
dress, and wore, like the archduchess, the riband of the
imperial order of St. Nepomucenus recently sent to her by the
empress. A diadem of pearls surrounded her head, and harmonised
admirably with two splendid braids of fair hair that shaded her
delicate cheeks. Her arms, whiter than the lace that ornamented
them, were half hidden in long gloves, reaching nearly to her
elbow.

Nothing could be more perfect than her figure, nothing more
charming than her foot in its satin slipper. At the moment when
I saw her her beaming blue eyes wore a pensive expression. I do
not know whether some serious thought came over her, or whether
she was impressed with the grave melody of the piece Liszt was
playing; but the expression of her countenance seemed to me full
of sweetness and melancholy.

Never can I express my feelings at that moment. All that my aunt
had rela