We must now allow six weeks to have passed by, and we shall find Eleonore at the chateau La Graviere, dressing for a fÊte which is to celebrate Victorine’s birth-day. Victorine is assisting Eleonore.

“Only look at this pearl necklace of mine. It is beautiful, and you must wear it this evening,” said Victorine.

Eleonore returned—“I have also a pearl necklace, which I value highly. It contains a miniature of my aunt. Here it is.”

“What a resemblance to the marchioness. If I did not know that it was impossible, I should say that your aunt and mine were one and the same person. It is strange, now I perceive you have the regular Grecian La Graviere nose. Papa will fall in love with you at once. He is always looking at my nose, and wondering there is not danger that it will not become one-sided. I believe if I were to fall from a carriage the first question he would ask, would be, ‘Have you hit your nose?’”

“Your father will soon be here, will he not?” asked Eleonore.

“Yes, if the Duke of Orleans do not detain him. There will be eight gentlemen beside from the court. But I hear carriages. The neighboring guests have began to assemble, and I must help mamma to receive them—come!”

The ball-room was brilliantly lighted, and Eleonore’s beauty was the theme of every tongue. Her dress was white satin, covered with white lace and looped with white roses. The only ornament she wore was the miniature necklace, clasped tightly around her throat.

The countess was delighted with the appearance of her young guest, and introduced her to all her particular friends. In about half an hour there was a rush in the hall; the folding-doors of the ante-chamber were thrown wide open, and the prince royal entered, leaning on the arm of Monsieur La Graviere, and followed by his suite.

Monsieur La Graviere, after saluting his wife and presenting her to the prince, turned away to pay his compliments to some of the ladies present, when his eye was suddenly caught by Eleonore’s face, as she stood within a few feet of him. “Good God! my sister!” he exclaimed, impetuously.

“She does indeed resemble Aunt Eugenie! We all observed it,” said Victorine.

“Introduce me, my child. What is her name?”

“Eleonore Carron.”

“Carron—it was not his name. It is impossible.”

The introduction was made, and the master of the castle was inquiring if she was a native of Paris, when he stopped short—started, and then said:

“Forgive me, mademoiselle; but is not that a miniature of my sister Eugenie in your necklace?”

Eleonore trembled, but she stood erect, and answered firmly. “It is a miniature of my aunt.”

“And what was her name?”

“You will excuse my not answering any further questions.”

“I hope you will forgive my rudeness, when you see its likeness to my sister,” continued the count. “Here she comes!”

Eleonore turned pale, for she felt that the hour was at hand that would reveal her name and kindred. Her self-command increased in proportion. Pride forbade any manifestation of emotion before those who spurned the mother who gave her birth; yet when she saw a face streaming with tears before her, that she knew belonged to her mother’s only and dear sister; when she received a warm embrace, and heard in a soft voice, these words—“I know it is Eleonore Eboli, my beloved niece!” The poor child sighed “Yes!” and then fainted.

She was quickly carried out, and though soon restored to consciousness, did not venture again into the saloon. She was in the arms of an aunt, a cousin sat beside her; they both gave thanks to God that she had been brought to them; they wept when she told them of her mother’s death. And the poor marchioness said—

“I will be your mother in future, dear child! you shall no longer be an orphan. I am rich, and all that can be done to contribute to your happiness will be freely bestowed.”

Here Eleonore summoned courage, and with down-cast eyes and faltering words, told her aunt that her destiny was decided, she should become the wife of a young architect of Paris. He was poor in purse, but rich in affection, and she begged her aunt to say nothing against their marriage, till at least, she had seen the youth.

“She is like her mother in heart as well as in form,” sighed the marchioness. “But come, Eleonore, I think we must go to bed; we have had happiness enough for one night, and you, Victorine, must return to the ball; his royal highness will miss those bright eyes!”

With many a kind embrace they then separated for the night.

About an hour before breakfast, Victorine and Eleonore were taking their morning promenade on a terrace that overlooked the Seine, and Eleonore was unburthening her heart to her cousin, when Victorine exclaimed—

“Here comes the prince!”

“Good God! he is arm in arm with Victor Lazun!”

“Yes, that is my cousin, but not yours.”

“Your cousin!!! with the prince too. Ah! what will happen next; I hardly know now what I am saying, my senses are bewildered, one strange scene succeeds another till I almost doubt my own identity!”

“I salute you, ladies,” said the prince. “My lord duke and I have been rifling your flower-beds. May I present you this bouquet?”

“My flowers will feel grateful for your highness’ attentions,” said Victorine.

“Forgive me, Eleonore,” said young Lazun, “you will not love me the less now that I am a duke and peer of France. I am still Victor Lazun, as you are Eleonore Eboli.”

I had recently arrived in Paris. A ball was given at the Tuilleries, and many Americans were there. We stood in rows through which the royal family passed, followed by several maids of honor and ladies of the bed-chamber.

I caught my breath as one passed near me. “Who is that?” said I to a friend, who was well acquainted at court.

“It is the Duchess of Lazun, the intimate friend of the Princess Marie of Orleans. She is a great favorite with all the royal family, and her husband also. But here she comes again.”

Our eyes met, we recognized each other—my readers may guess the rest.