would ruin his cause. He had to deal with Philistines. The father was
a man of no small self-esteem--he had been the honored tutor of
Maximilian II., and was now in high favor at the Bavarian court, even
controlling university and artistic appointments. A Socialist would be
especially distasteful to him. Twenty years ago Varnhagen von Ense had
heard him lecture on Communism--good-humoredly, wittily, shrugging
shoulders at these poor, fantastic fools who didn't understand that
the world was excellently arranged centuries before they were born.
Helene herself, with her weak will, would be unable to outface her
family. Before approaching the parents, had he not better wait the
final developments of his law-case? If he had to leave Germany
temporarily to escape the imprisonment, would not that be a favorable
opportunity for prosecuting his love-affairs in Switzerland? And what
a pity to throw up his milk-cure! "_Enfin_, I wish you success, _mon
cher enfant_, though I will only put complete trust in my own eyes. In
feminine questions you have neither reason nor judgment."

Lassalle's response was to enclose a pretty letter from Helene,
pleading humbly for the Countess's affection. Together let them nurse
the sick eagle. She herself was but a child, and would lend herself to
any childish follies to drive the clouds from his brow. She would try
to comprehend his magnificent soul, his giant mind, and in happiness
or in sorrow would remain faithful and firm at his side.

The Countess knit her brow. Then Lassalle was already with this Helena
in Berne.

XI

It was a week of delicious happiness, niched amid the eternal
mountains, fused with skies and waters.

With an accommodating chaperon who knew no German, the couple could do
and say what they pleased. Lassalle, throwing off the heavy burdens of
prophet and politician, alternated between brilliant lover and
happy-hearted boy. It was almost a honeymoon. Now they were children
with all the overflowing endearments of plighted lovers. Now they were
on the heights of intellect, talking poetry and philosophy, and
reading Lassalle's works; now they were discussing Balzac's
_Physiologie du Mariage_. Anon Lassalle was a large dog, gambolling
before his capricious mistress. "Lie down, sir," she cried once, as he
was reading a poem to her. And with peals of Homeric laughter
Ferdinand declared she had found the only inoffensive way of silencing
him. "If ever I displease you in futu