s, columns, obelisks, sarcophagi carved in snow-white marble--
passing graves that spoke of recent affliction--others of older date,
but garnished with fresh flowers--the symbols of lore or affection that
still lingered--we seated ourselves upon a moss-grown slab, with the
fronds of the Babylonian willow waving above our heads, and drooping
mournfully around us.

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR.

PITY FOR LOVE.

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 he