idently thought so too. By fair means and foul, by spies and
lawyers and friendly agents, Lassalle's frenzied energy had penetrated
through every defence to the inmost entrenchment where she sat
cowering. He had exacted the father's consent to an interview. Only
Helene's own consent was wanting. His friend Colonel Rustow brought
the sick Hercules the account of her refusal--a refusal which made
ridiculous his moving of mountains.

"But surely you owe Lassalle some satisfaction," he had protested.

"To what? To his wounded vanity?"

It was the last straw.

"Harlot!" cried Lassalle, and as in a volcanic jet, hurled her from
his burning heart.

A terrible calm settled upon him. It was as if fire should become ice.
Yes, he understood at last what Destiny had always been trying to tell
him--that love and happiness were not for him. He was consecrate to
great causes: His Will, entangled with that of others, grew feeble,
fruitless. Women were truly _enfants du diable_. He had been within an
ace of abandoning his historical mission. Now he would arise, strong,
sublime: a mighty weapon forged by the gods, and tempered by fire and
tears.

Only, one thing must first be done. The past must be wiped off. He
must recommence with a clean sheet. True, he had always refused duels.
But now he saw the fineness, the necessity of them. In a world of
chicanery and treachery the sword alone cut clean.

He sent a challenge to the father, a message of goodwill to the lover.
But it was Janko who took up the challenge.

The weapon chosen was the pistol.

Lassalle's friends begged him to practise.

"Useless! I know what is destined."

Never had he been so colossal, so assured. His nerves seemed to have
regained their tone. The night before the duel he slept like a
tranquil child.

In the early morn, on the way to the field outside Geneva, he begged
his second to arrange the duel on the French side of the frontier, so
that he might remain in Geneva and settle his account with the father.
At the word of command, "One!" Janko's shot rang out. Lassalle's was
not a second later, but he had already received his death-wound.

He lay three days, dying in terrible agony, relieved only by copious
opium. Between the spasms, surprise possessed his mind that his Will
should have counted for nothing before the imperturbable march of the
universe. "There will never be Justice for the People," he thought
bitterly. "I was a dreamer. Heine was righ