. 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,