“Poor Eugénie!” 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 Eugénie! 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.”