With the count’s retinue came, also, or rather returned to this country, the only remaining member of Von Frauenstein’s family, the son of his father’s sister, named Felix Müller. He was an accomplished gentleman, about forty-five years old, who had lived many years in New Orleans, and had lost his fortune during our civil war. He was a scientific chemist and geologist, and Paul wished him to direct education in the Social Palace; so he came with that view, if the prospect should please him. He always considered himself more an American than anything else, being, moreover, a naturalized citizen; and he had made himself very obnoxious to the government minions in Berlin, on account of his doings and sayings as a leading member of the _Internationale_. He was threatened with arrest and imprisonment, when his cousin Paul came to the rescue, and smuggled him out of Berlin and into Guise, where he studied the organization of the _Familistère_ with great enthusiasm. The count’s responsibilities in directing the Social Palace enterprise often took him away for several days at a time. Now, whenever he was absent, he wrote to Clara. He knew she read whatever he wrote with interest, and it was much to connect himself with her thoughts in any way. In one of these letters he said: “There can be no real satisfaction except in the divine joy of love’s perfect answer to love’s needs. When one is longing for the touch of magnetic hands, and for words that are like caresses, the gratitude of thousands whom he has made happy, the adoration of the world even, falls upon his heart like the tongue of a bell in an exhausted receiver. What if a man gain the whole world, and lose his own soul—if he gain all things except the one blessing which alone could answer the cry of his heart! I am without soul, without inspiration, almost without hope to-day, or I could not write in such a strain to you. Do not heed it. Do not let your pure heart be troubled by my raving. You know I trust you, and whatever you think, or feel, or do, will be wisest and best.” To this Clara wrote, by the next mail: “If I could reproach you for anything, it would be for daring to say you are ‘without inspiration, almost without hope.’ I know it is only a mood, that has passed long before this. I know well that you are happy, for you can have no real doubt that Clara loves you with all her heart. See how presumptuous she is! “If words can make you happier, dear Paul, frame any declaration, even the most extravagant, and I will make it my creed.