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.
"You are tired," said Julius, as the music suddenly ceased.
"Rather so," she replied.
He led her, faint, pale, and trembling, to a seat. Some colour returned to her cheek as she sat down; and, with an open and cheerful air, she put out her hand to him, and said, "Farewell, Captain Alvinzi; all honour, and all happiness go with you."
As he took her hand, he observed, for the first time, that pale-changing of the cheek which is so eloquent of love; and, looking into her eyes, he felt his heart sink with a sweeter emotion than he had ever known before.
Thus silently they parted; and Julius went out from her presence sad, but happy. "Il est si doux aimer, et d'etre aimé." He felt that he was beloved. In half an hour, the noble gateway at Salzburgh, cut through the solid rock, rang to the loud echo of trampling hoofs; and Julius was riding under it with an advanced guard, and a few troop-sergeants, to prepare the quarters of the regiment, then mustering for their march.
In all the camps of Europe, a finer youth, or a nobler spirit, could no where have been found than Julius Alvinzi. Five years of military service—three of which had been spent in the toils, the watchings, and the combats of warfare—had accomplished and perfected him in all points, as the zealous and enterprising leader of a squadron. Glory was his idol—war his passion. His day-dreams over-leaped the long interval of years which, of necessity, separated him from high command; and, as he built up the castle of his future fame, many were the victories which he won "in the name of God, and the Kaiser!" With this, the gallant war-cry of Austria, he had already, in some few charges, led on his bold and bitter Hungarians; and two or three dashing affairs of outposts—a, daring and important reconnoissance, most skilfully conducted—and the surprise and capture of a French picquet—had already given him an established name for intelligence and enterprise. There was a manliness about him superior to low, sensual enjoyment; and the imagery and language of vulgar voluptuousness found no cell in a well-stored, well-principled, and masculine mind, to receive or retain them. He was a happy, handsome, hardy soldier; knowing his duly, loving it, and always performing it with honour. Such was the man whom Beatrice Adony, with a quick perception of true nobility of character, had silently observed during the stay of the Hungarians at Salzburgh, and her love for him was a secret—