“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.