Evelyn’s toilette was a decided success; a murmur of admiration accompanied us as we threaded our way through the brilliant crowd of officers and gaily attired young nobles who thronged the vestibule and ante-rooms of the building. After some difficulty we succeeded in reaching the upper end of the ball room, where on a slightly elevated dais were seated the Imperial family. The Grand Duchess, as the celebrated Catherine de Medicis in a magnificent costume of the middle ages, was literally one blaze of jewels. On perceiving Evelyn—who was rather a favorite—she beckoned her to approach, and graciously complimented her on the good taste and simplicity of her attire. The Count Syracuse, who was a great admirer of beauty, then stepped forward and engaged the pretty Frascatana for a quadrille. The Prince, who, though somewhat stout, was a remarkably fine-looking man, appeared to the utmost advantage as Lorenzo de Medicis.—His extremely fascinating manners, together with his exalted rank, rendered him (if report speak true) almost irresistible with the female sex. But he was by no means a constant lover; he might with truth say, with a celebrated French roué: “_Moi je suis fidèle à tout le monde._” The count devoted himself to his “Cynthia of the minute,” and scarcely left her side, much to the disgust and envy of many a noble signora, who longed in vain for even one glance of passing admiration from the illustrious Don Giovanni, who had no eyes but for his simple Zerlina. Evelyn gave herself up to the intoxication of gratified vanity, and appeared to be as much charmed with her royal cavalier as he was taken with her. Had not the prince been a married man, I believe she would have aspired even to an alliance with royalty, for the recent choice of the French Emperor had contributed to turn the head of many a beauty. As it was, to permit such marked attention from a Prince, whose success with ladies was proverbial, could not but be detrimental to a virtuous woman’s reputation. Thus reflecting, I turned to seek Melville. Poor fellow! he was leaning against a fluted column the very statue of despair. In his expressive countenance you might see depicted all the tortures of jealousy and mortified pride. I advanced towards him and touched his elbow. He started as from a dream, made a few polite and common-place observations, and before I could speak a word, had vanished from the room. I still thought he would return, as was his wont, to escort us to the refreshment table, for Evelyn’s Italian adorers were usually too intently occupied in discussing the excellent supper and wines provided by their royal host, to have time to attend to the wants of any fair lady. The Count Syracuse was forced to accompany the Imperial party to supper. He therefore brought his lovely partner all glowing with the triumphs and excitement of the dance to my side. Evelyn passed her arm within mine.