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. * * * * * HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN, DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. BY FAYETTE ROBINSON. (_Continued from page 72._) The costume of the Catholic church at the altar has always been prominent and unchangeable, and even the secular garb of its priests has undergone fewer mutations than that of any other class of the community. All, however, will be struck with the marked difference between the following portrait of a young abbé and the churchmen of to-day. [Illustration]