He was as famous here as in his native land. The _Revue des Deux Mondes_ was running a translation of his works, laudatory articles were written about him, his correspondence from Paris had made a stir in Germany and Austria, and his publishers were issuing new editions of his books. Though he was spending freely, sufficient money was coming in to meet his obligations. Indeed, fortune smiled upon him. “_Vive le général LaFayette_!” the throngs around him roared again. He had reached the Madaleine, which was then still under construction, and crossing the street he walked back along the Grands Boulevards. Only the day before he had talked with Balzac about the charm of wandering through the crowded streets of Paris, watching the people and listening to their talk. Albert found that he could think best as he wandered along the crowded sidewalks. He soon found himself again thinking of his Fatherland. He was always thinking of his Fatherland. The soil of Germany was sacred to him, her language was music to his ears. He loved Paris, loved the French, but his heart beat for the land of the Rhine. He recalled a recent attack on him in a German newspaper. He was attacked on all sides. The radicals called him a traitor, the _Junkers_ called him a revolutionist. But he did not mind. He was a little David with more than one smooth stone in his pouch. He would yet slay the blustering Goliath. He would fight for Young Germany in his own way! However, the knowledge that he was being attacked by the radicals and the _Junkers_ stirred his blood. At last the poor _Michel_ had stopped snoring. He was stretching his clumsy arms. No more sweet lullabies for the drowsy _Michel_, no more love songs, no dream ballads, no subtle epigrams. He must speak to him more directly, in language he could not misunderstand. He had scarcely more than unsheathed his sword. They shall see! MARGUERITE. I.