had he entered his room at the Pension Leovet, in the neighbourhood of
the house of Herr von Donniges, than a servant handed him a letter from
Helen. It told how on her arrival she had found the whole house excited
by the betrothal of her sister Margaret to Count von Keyserling. Her
mother's delight in the engagement had tempted her (contrary to
Lassalle's express wish) to confidences, and she had told of her love for
the arch-agitator. Her mother had turned upon her with loathing,
execrated Lassalle without stint, spoken scornfully of the Countess, the
casket robbery, and kindred matters. "It is quite impossible," urged the
frantic woman, "that Count Keyserling will unite himself to a family with
a connexion of this kind." The father joined in the upbraiding, the
disowning of an undutiful daughter. One has but to remember the vulgar,
tradesman instinct, which then, as now, guides the marriage ideals of a
certain class, to take in the whole situation at a glance.

Lassalle had hardly begun to read the letter when Helen appeared before
him, and begged him to take her away immediately--to France--anywhere!
Her father's violence, her mother's abuse, had driven her to despair.

Lassalle was indignant with her. Why had she not obeyed him? He would
speak to her father. All would yet be well. But--she was compromised
there--at his hotel. Had she a friend in the neighbourhood?

At this moment her maid came in to say that there was a carriage ready to
take them to the station. A train would start for Paris in a quarter of
an hour. Helen renewed her entreaty, but Lassalle remained resolute. He
would only receive her from her father. To what friend could he take
her? Helen named Madame Caroline Rognon, who beheld them with
astonishment.

A few minutes later Frau von Donniges and her daughter Margaret entered
the house. Then followed a disagreeable scene between Lassalle and the
mother, ending, after many scornful words thrown at the ever
self-restrained lover, in Helen being carried off before his eyes--indeed,
by his wish. Lassalle had shown dignity and self-restraint, but he had
killed the girl's love--until it was too late.

Duhring speaks of Lassalle's "inconceivable stupidity," and there is a
great temptation at this date, with all the circumstances before us, to
look at the matter with Duhring's eyes. But to one whom Heine had called
a Messiah, whom Humboldt had termed a "Wunderkind," and Bismarck had