“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 Eugénie—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.”