ree with me."

"Pardon me, I was at that moment repressing a vague fear which seemed
prophetic."

"And that--"

"Was that we should meet again, when your opinions on Death and the
philosophy of Revolutions might be different."

"Never!"

"You enchant me, Cousin Rene," said the old man, who had listened to his
relation with delight. "Ah, I see you have proper sentiments of justice
and philanthropy. Why did I not seek to know you before? You admire the
Revolution;--you, equally with me, detest the barbarity of kings and the
fraud of priests?"

"Detest! How could I love mankind if I did not?"

"And," said the old man, hesitatingly, "you do not think, with this
noble gentleman, that I erred in the precepts I instilled into that
wretched man?"

"Erred! Was Socrates to blame if Alcibiades was an adulterer and a
traitor?"

"You hear him, you hear him! But Socrates had also a Plato; henceforth
you shall be a Plato to me. You hear him?" exclaimed the old man,
turning to the stranger.

But the latter was at the threshold. Who shall argue with the most
stubborn of all bigotries,--the fanaticism of unbelief?

"Are you going?" exclaimed Dumas, "and before I have thanked you,
blessed you, for the life of this dear and venerable man? Oh, if ever I
can repay you,--if ever you want the heart's blood of Rene Dumas!" Thus
volubly delivering himself, he followed the stranger to the threshold of
the second chamber, and there, gently detaining him, and after looking
over his shoulder, to be sure that he was not heard by the owner,
he whispered, "I ought to return to Nancy. One would not lose one's
time,--you don't think, sir, that that scoundrel took away ALL the old
fool's money?"

"Was it thus Plato spoke of Socrates, Monsieur Dumas?"

"Ha, ha!--you are caustic. Well, you have a right. Sir, we shall meet
again."

"AGAIN!" muttered the stranger, and his brow darkened. He hastened to
his chamber; he passed the day and the night alone, and in studies, no
matter of what nature,--they served to increase his gloom.

What could ever connect his fate with Rene Dumas, or the fugitive
assassin? Why did the buoyant air of Paris seem to him heavy with
the steams of blood; why did an instinct urge him to fly from those
sparkling circles, from that focus of the world's awakened hopes,
warning him from return?--he, whose lofty existence defied--but away
these dreams and omens! He leaves France behind. Back, O Italy, to thy
majestic