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. How was it with Eugenie? How with Aurore? Mine was a night of reflections, in which pleasure and pain were singularly blended. The love of the quadroon was my source of pleasure; but, alas! pain predominated as my thoughts dwelt upon the Creole! That the latter loved me I no longer doubted; and this assurance, so far from giving me joy, filled me with keen regret. Accursed vanity, that can enjoy such a triumph,--vile heart, that can revel in a love it is unable to return! Mine did not: it grieved instead. In thought I reviewed the short hours of intercourse that had passed between us--Eugenie Besancon and myself. I communed with my conscience, asking myself the question, Was I innocent? Had I done aught, either by word, or look, or gesture, to occasion this love?--to produce the first delicate impression, that upon a heart susceptible as hers soon becomes a fixed and vivid picture? Upon the boat? Or afterwards? I remembered that at first sight I had gazed upon her with admiring eyes. I remembered that in hers I had beheld that strange expression of interest which I had attributed to curiosity or some other cause--I knew not what. Vanity, of which no doubt I possess my share, had not interpreted those tender glances aright--had not even whispered me they were the flowers of love, easily ripened to its fruits. Had I been instrumental in nurturing those flowers of the heart?--had I done aught to beguile them to their fatal blooming? I examined the whole course of my conduct, and pondered over all that had passed between us. I thought of all that had occurred during our passage upon the boat--during the tragic scene that followed. I could not remember aught, either of word, look, or gesture, by which I might condemn myself. I gave full play to my conscience, and it declared me innocent. Afterwards--after that terrible night--after those burning eyes and that strange face had passed dreamlike before my disordered senses--after that moment I could not have been guilty of aught that was trivial. During the hours of my convalescence--during the whole period of my stay upon the plantation--I could remember nothing in my intercourse with Eugenie Besancon to give me cause for regret. Towards her I had observed a studied respect--nothing more. Secretly I felt friendship and sympathy; more especially after I had noted the change in her manner, and feared that some cloud was shadowing her fortune. Alas,
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