“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.”