For the first time, fully, Von Lichtenberg's mad attempt at my destruction rose before me, and demanded an explanation on another basis than that of madness. He had brought up his daughter as a boy, for it had been prophesied that she would be slain as a girl--slain by a Saluce; and I was the last descendant of that family. Then the picture of Margaret von Lichtenberg rose before me, and its likeness to little Carl, and the fact of my own likeness to Philippe de Saluce, who had murdered Margaret so many years ago; and it was just then, walking down the Boulevard St. Michel, amidst the crush and turmoil, jostled by students and grisettes, beggars and thieves, that the question came before me: "Can the dead return? Has Margaret von Lichtenberg come back to this sad old world again as little Carl? Am I Philippe de Saluce?" And then like a pang through my heart came the recollection, the _fact_, that I had recognised the park of Lichtenberg as a thing I had seen once before. I had not recognised the Schloss, but even that fact was an indirect confirmation of my fantastic idea, for the Schloss had been rebuilt in 1703, and the murder of Margaret had occurred many years before that. All these questions and ideas assailing my mind at once brought terror to my heart for a moment. Only for a moment. "Well?" said I to myself, "suppose this is true, what then? What is the world around me, dull and commonplace and sordid, even under its gold and glitter? I have seen the highest pleasures that life can give men in exchange for gold to-day in the Amber Salon of the Café de Paris. I have seen an Emperor who has attained his ambition, and the futility and weariness of it all in his face. I have lost and left behind the only country where dreams are real and life worth living--childhood. I love the past; and should it come to me and surround me with its romance, should some mysterious fate call it up to me, should the end be tragedy even, then welcome, for one can only die; and what care I about death if I am given one draught from the water of romance in this arid desert of commonplace things which they call the world?" I walked beside Franzius intoxicated: the woods of Lichtenberg were around me, the winds of some far-distant day were rocking the trees. Romance had touched me with her wand. I heard the Hunting-Song, the horn, the cries of the jägers; and now I was in the gallery of the Schloss, the sound of the violins was in my ears, the music that was holding me from death, the ghostly child was plucking at my sleeve. Ah, God! whoever has tasted the waters of romance like that will never want wine again. And then the wand was withdrawn, and I was walking in the Boulevard St. Michel with Franzius. CHAPTER XIX MY FIRST NIGHT IN PARIS (_continued_) He was holding out his hand timidly, as if to bid me good-bye. "Oh, but," said I, "we must not part so soon. Can you not come and have some dinner with me? What are you doing?"