I had spent the evening at the theatre of the Carinthian Gate, and was returning home by way of the ramparts, confident of meeting no one whom I knew; for on that night, in spite of the many strangers in Vienna and the multitude of fêtes, everything was unusually quiet long before midnight. It was magnificent weather for the time of the year. In the recess of a bastion jutting over the dry moat, I noticed a lank figure wrapped in a white cloak, which might easily have passed for that of Hamlet. Impelled by curiosity, I drew nearer, and to my utter astonishment recognised the Prince de Ligne. ‘What in Heaven’s name are you doing here, prince, at this hour of the night and in the biting cold?’ ‘In love affairs the beginning only is delightful; consequently, I always find great delight in recommencing. At your age, though, it was I who kept them waiting; at mine they keep me waiting; and, what’s worse, they don’t come. ‘I am keeping an appointment, but as you can see for yourself, I am keeping it alone. Well, people forgive hunchbacks the exuberance of their dorsal excrescence; why, at my age, should not people forgive my exuberance?’ ‘If it be true that woman’s happiness consists in the reflection of a man’s glory, where is the woman who would not be proud to owe hers to you?’ The prince shook his head, and declaimed mock-tragically: ‘“No, no; all things flee as age approaches, All things go, illusion too: Nature would have done much better To keep that until the last.”’ ‘I’ll leave you to your appointment, prince,’ I said. ‘No, I’ll wait no longer; lend me your arm and take me home.’ We slowly went in the direction of his house, and on the way his conversation betrayed the feeling of slighted pride; his words were marked by a tinge of melancholy which was new to me. ‘I am inclined to believe that in life reflection comes as a last misfortune,’ he said. ‘Up to the present I have not been among those who think that growing old is in itself a merit. At the dawn of life love’s dream balances its illusions on the spring within us. One carries the cup of pleasure to one’s lips; one imagines it’s going to last for ever, but years come, time flies and delivers its Parthian darts; from that moment disenchantment attends everything, the colours fade out of one’s existence. Ah me, I must get used to the idea.’ ‘But, prince, you attach too much importance to a trifling disappointment. You must put it down to the exactions of society, which those who are in it cannot always disregard.’