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 wrecks! On the Alps his soul breathes the free air once more.
Free air! Alas! let the world-healers exhaust their chemistry; man never shall be as free in the marketplace as on the mountain.

But we, reader, we too escape from these scenes of false wisdom clothing godless crime.
Away, once more "In den heitern Regionen Wo die reinen Formen wohnen." Away, to the loftier realm where the pure dwellers are.

Unpolluted by the Actual, the Ideal lives only with Art and Beauty.