“With what object, sir?” the person to whom I spoke asked me in almost unintelligible French. “With a very German object, be assured, sir,” I replied. “From the little I have learned, Sand seems to me to be one of those ghosts that appear only the greater and the more poetic for being wrapped in a shroud stained with blood. But he is not known in France; he might be put on the same level there with a Fieschi or a Meunier, and I wish, to the best of my ability, to enlighten the minds of my countrymen about him.” “It would be a great pleasure to me, sir, to assist in such an undertaking; but you see that I can scarcely speak French; you do not speak German at all; so that we shall find it difficult to understand each other.” “If that is all,” I returned, “I have in my carriage yonder an interpreter, or rather an interpretress, with whom you will, I hope, be quite satisfied, who speaks German like Goethe, and to whom, when you have once begun to speak to her, I defy you not to tell everything.” “Let us go, then, sir,” answered the pedestrian. “I ask no better than to be agreeable to you.” We walked toward the carriage, which was still waiting on the highroad, and I presented to my travelling companion the new recruit whom I had just gained. The usual greetings were exchanged, and the dialogue began in the purest Saxon. Though I did not understand a word that was said, it was easy for me to see, by the rapidity of the questions and the length of the answers, that the conversation was most interesting. At last, at the end of half an hours growing desirous of knowing to what point they had come, I said, “Well?” “Well,” answered my interpreter, “you are in luck’s way, and you could not have asked a better person.” “The gentleman knew Sand, then?” “The gentleman is the governor of the prison in which Sand was confined.” “Indeed?” “For nine months—that is to say, from the day he left the hospital— this gentleman saw him every day.” “Excellent!” “But that is not all: this gentleman was with him in the carriage that took him to execution; this gentleman was with him on the scaffold; there’s only one portrait of Sand in all Mannheim, and this gentleman has it.” I was devouring every word; a mental alchemist, I was opening my crucible and finding gold in it. “Just ask,” I resumed eagerly, “whether the gentleman will allow us to take down in writing the particulars that he can give me.” My interpreter put another question, then, turning towards me, said, “Granted.” Mr. G——got into the carriage with us, and instead of going on to Heidelberg, we returned to Mannheim, and alighted at the prison.