After that we went to the ball-room. One of the first persons that caught my eye on entering was the Prince de Ligne. He was beaming with happiness, and his step was as elastic and graceful as that of any young man. It was not the same man who had confided his griefs to me on the previous night. On his arm hung a woman in a blue domino. Her figure, her voice, and the whole of her bearing fully explained the disappointment and regret of the prince at finding himself alone at the love-tryst. I brushed gently past him, and whispered in his ear: ‘It appears that you were lacking in patience last night.’ ‘You are right,’ was the answer. ‘The great art of life is the exercise of patience.’ I went away, but I fancied I recognised the prince’s companion. It was, unless I made a mistake, Mme. A---- P----, the young and charming Greek, who was attracting so much attention in Vienna. An unhappy love affair, of which the Prince de C---- was the hero, had aroused the interest of the fair and most impressionable half of the Austrian aristocracy; her great beauty had easily obtained for her many friends among the other half of the European celebrities. Her romantic story, which was told in whispers, was simple and touching. Having fallen a victim to the Prince de C----‘s blandishments when she was still very young, she almost immediately became a mother. Both her existence and her heart were broken by desertion. There was no lack of would-be consolers; but doubtless her experience had taught her that a first lapse is only condoned on condition of its not being repeated. Unable to dispense with a protector, she judiciously chose the Prince de Ligne, whose great age, she probably thought, would silence all adverse comment. The liaison, it was said, remained strictly within the limits of a platonic correspondence; the young Greek contributing her share by epistles such as all women of all countries and conditions know how to write; the illustrious old man replying with effusions of which he alone had preserved the secret. The latter contained the expression of a sentiment more intense, perhaps, than that of mere friendship, but tempered by the gentle logic of a wholly paternal affection. Contrary to the invariable etiquette prevailing at state balls, where only the polonaise was danced, quadrilles were speedily organised. A few moments later I caught sight once more of the Prince de Ligne, but this time he was alone. As a matter of course, I went up to him. ‘Just watch that pretty bayadère figuring in the quadrille close to us,’ he said. ‘Would you not take her for one of the most tantalizing girls at the ball? Well, before she had spoken three words I guessed her identity. It’s young Alfred, the Comte de Woyna’s brother.’ ‘A young man, prince?’