The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West. Майн Рид
on my part. I ran no great risk in saving you.”
“No risk, monsieur! Every risk—from the knife of an assassin—from the waves. No risk! But, monsieur, I can assure you my gratitude shall be in proportion to your generous gallantry. My heart tells me so;—alas, poor heart! it is filled at once with gratitude and grief.”
“Yes, ma’amselle, I understand you have much to lament, in the loss of a faithful servant.”
“Faithful servant, monsieur, say, rather, friend. Faithful, indeed! Since my poor father’s death, he has been my father. All my cares were his; all my affairs in his hands. I knew not trouble. But now, alas! I know not what is before me.”
Suddenly changing her manner, she eagerly inquired—
“When you last saw him, monsieur, you say he was struggling with the ruffian who wounded you?”
“He was.—It was the last I saw of either. There is no hope—none—the boat went down a few moments after. Poor Antoine! poor Antoine!”
Again she burst into tears, for she had evidently been weeping before. I could offer no consolation. I did not attempt it. It was better she should weep. Tears alone could relieve her.
“The coachman, Pierre, too—one of the most devoted of my people—he, too, is lost. I grieve for him as well; but Antoine was my father’s friend—he was mine—Oh! the loss—the loss;—friendless; and yet, perhaps, I may soon need friends. Pauvre Antoine!”
She wept as she uttered these phrases. Aurore was also in tears. I could not restrain myself—the eyes of childhood returned, and I too wept.
This solemn scene was at length brought to a termination by Eugénie, who appearing suddenly to gain the mastery over her grief, approached the bedside.
“Monsieur,” said she, “I fear for some time you will find in me a sad host. I cannot easily forget my friend, but I know you will pardon me for thus indulging in a moment of sorrow. For the present, adieu! I shall return soon, and see that you are properly waited upon. I have lodged you in this little place, that you might be out of reach of noises that would disturb you. Indeed I am to blame for this present intrusion. The doctor has ordered you not to be visited, but—I—I could not rest till I had seen the preserver of my life, and offered him my thanks. Adieu, adieu! Come, Aurore!”
I was left alone, and lay reflecting upon the interview. It had impressed me with a profound feeling of friendship for Eugénie Besançon;—more than friendship—sympathy: for I could not resist the belief that, somehow or other, she was in peril—that over that young heart, late so light and gay, a cloud was gathering.
I felt for her regard, friendship, sympathy—nothing more. And why nothing more? Why did I not love her, young, rich, beautiful? Why?
Because I loved another—I loved Aurore!
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