Along the way we had conversed upon several topics indifferently--of my
gambling adventure on the boat--of the "sportsmen" of New Orleans--of
the fine moonlight.
Until after entering the cemetery, and taking our seats upon the tomb, I
had disclosed nothing of that which altogether engrossed my thoughts.
The time had now arrived for unbosoming myself, and half-an-hour after
Eugene D'Hauteville knew the story of my love.
I confided to him all that had occurred from the time of my leaving New
Orleans, up to the period of our meeting upon the Houma. My interview
with the banker Brown, and my fruitless search that day for Aurore, were
also detailed.
From first to last he listened without interrupting me; only once, when
I described the scene of my confession to Eugenie, and its painful
ending. The details of this seemed to interest him exceedingly--in
fact, to give him pain. More than once I was interrupted by his sobs,
and by the light of the moon I could see that he was in tears!
"Noble youth!" thought I, "thus to be affected by the sufferings of a
stranger!"
"Poor Eugenie!" murmured he, "is _she_ not to be pitied?"
"Pitied! ah, Monsieur; you know not how much I pity her! That scene
will never be effaced from my memory. If pity--friendship--any
sacrifice could make amends, how willingly would I bestow it upon her--
all but that which is not in my power to give--my love. Deeply,
Monsieur D'Hauteville--deeply do I grieve for that noble lady. Oh, that
I could pluck the sting from her heart which I have been the innocent
cause of placing there. But surely she will recover from this
unfortunate passion? Surely in time--"
"Ah! never! never!" interrupted D'Hauteville, with an earnestness of
manner that surprised me.
"Why say you so, Monsieur?"
"Why?--because I have some skill in such affairs; young as you think me,
_I_ have experienced a similar misfortune. Poor Eugenie! _Such a wound
is hard to heal_; she will not recover from it. Ah--never!"
"Indeed, I pity her--with my whole soul I pity her."
"You should seek her and say so."
"Why?" I asked, somewhat astonished at the suggestion.
"Perhaps your pity expressed to her might give consolation."
"Impossible. It would have the contrary effect."
"You misjudge, Monsieur. Unrequited love is far less hard to bear when
it meets with sympathy. It is only haughty contempt and heartless
triumph that wring blood-drops from the heart. Sympathy is balm to the
wounds of love. Believe me it is so. _I feel it to be so. Oh! I feel
it to be_ so!"
The last two phrases he spoke with an earnestness that sounded strangely
in my ears.
"Mysterious youth!" thought I. "So gentle, so compassionate, and yet so
worldly-wise!"
I felt as though I conversed with some spiritual being--some superior
mind, who comprehended all.
His doctrine was new to me, and quite contrary to the general belief.
At a later period of my life I became convinced of its truth.
"If I thought my sympathy would have such an effect," replied I, "I
should seek Eugenie--I should offer her--"
"There will be a time for that afterward," said D'Hauteville,
interrupting me; "your present business is more pressing. You purpose
to _buy this quadroon_?"
"I did so this morning. Alas! I have no longer a hope. It will not be
in my power."
"How much money have these sharpers left you?"
"Not much over one hundred dollars."
"Ha! that will not do. From your description of her she will bring ten
times the amount. A misfortune, indeed! My own purse is still lighter
than yours. I have not a hundred dollars. _Pardieu_! it is a sad
affair."
D'Hauteville pressed his head between his hands, and remained for some
moments silent, apparently in deep meditation. From his manner I could
not help believing that he really sympathised with me, and that he was
thinking of some plan to assist me.
"After all," he muttered to himself, just loud enough for me to hear
what was said, "if she should not succeed--if she should not find the
papers--then she, too, must be a sacrifice. Oh! it is a terrible risk.
It might be better not--it might be--"
"Monsieur!" I said, interrupting him, "of what are you speaking?"
"Oh!--ah! pardon me: it is an affair I was thinking of--_n'importe_. We
had better return, Monsieur. It is cold. The atmosphere of this solemn
place chills me."
He said all this with an air of embarrassment, as though he had been
speaking his thoughts unintentionally.
Though astonished at what he had uttered, I could not press him for an
explanation; but, yielding to his wish, I rose up to depart. I had lost
hope. Plainly he had it not in his power to serve me.
At this moment a resource suggested itself to my mind, or rather the
forlorn hope of a resource.