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" very image of his mother,"—"but with his father's eyes,"—"A perfect picture." Such were the usual run of exclamations that greeted the little Marquis de Mercœur. Fortunate it is for the tranquillity of the new-born infant, if he have any turn for philosophy, that he understands none of the nonsense consecrated by old usage to the commencement of existence. The birth of an heir seems a sort of security taken of fate,

and the young heir of the illustrious house De Mercœur was received with due joy and reverence. The satin curtains of the cradle were heavy with the many quarterings of the broidered arms, and were put aside by no less a hand than that of