r."

"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