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him who had been the occasion of it。 The Frenchman was silenced；
the general verdict of the company was too obviously on our side。
From this time the conversation continued between Bourgonef and
myself； and he not only succeeded in entirely dissipating my absurd
antipathywhich I now saw to have been founded on purely imaginary
grounds； for neither the falseness nor the furtiveness could now be
detectedbut he succeeded in captivating all my sympathy。 Long
after dinner was over； and the salle empty； we sat smoking our
cigars； and discussing politics； literature； and art in that
suggestive desultory manner which often gives a charm to casual
acquaintances。
It was a stirring epoch； that of February； 1848。 The Revolution；
at first so hopeful； and soon to manifest itself in failure so
disastrous； was hurrying to an outburst。 France had been for many
months agitated by cries of electoral reform； and by indignation at
the corruption and scandals in high places。 The Praslin murder；
and the dishonor of M。 Teste； terminated by suicide； had been
interpreted as signs of the coming destruction。 The political
banquets given in various important cities had been occasions for
inflaming the public mind； and to the far…seeing； these banquets
were interpreted as the sounds of the tocsin。 Louis Philippe had
become odious to France； and contemptible to Europe。 Guizot and
Duchatel； the ministers of that day； although backed by a
parliamentary majority on which they blindly relied； were
unpopular； and were regarded as infatuated even by their admirers
in Europe。 The Spanish marriages had all but led to a war with
England。 The Opposition； headed by Thiers and Odillon Barrot； was
strengthened by united action with the republican party； headed by
Ledru Rollin； Marrast； Flocon； and Louis Blanc。
Bourgonef was an ardent republican。 So was I； but my color was of
a different shade from his。 He belonged to the Reds。 My own
dominant tendencies being artistic and literary； my dream was of a
republic in which intelligence would be the archon or ruler； and；
of course； in such a republic； art and literature； as the highest
manifestation of mind； would have the supreme direction。 Do you
smile； reader？ I smile now； but it was serious earnest with me
then。 It is unnecessary to say more on this point。 I have said so
much to render intelligible the stray link of communion which
riveted the charm of my new acquaintance's conversation； there was
both agreement enough and difference enough in our views to render
our society mutually fascinating。
On retiring to my room that afternoon I could not help laughing at
my absurd antipathy against Bourgonef。 All his remarks had
disclosed a generous； ardent； and refined nature。 While my
antipathy had specially fastened upon a certain falseness in his
smilea falseness the more poignantly hideous if it were
falseness； because hidden amidst the wreaths of amiabilitymy
delight in his conversation had specially justified itself by the
truthfulness of his mode of looking at things。 He seemed to be
sincerity itself。 There was； indeed； a certain central reserve；
but that might only he an integrity of pride； or it might be
connected with painful circumstances in his history； of which the
melancholy in his face was the outward sign。
That very evening my constructive imagination was furnished with a
detail on which it was soon to be actively set to work。 I had been
rambling about the old fortifications； and was returning at
nightfall through the old archway near Albert Durer's house； when a
man passed by me。 We looked at each other in that automatic way in
which men look when they meet in narrow places； and I felt； so to
speak； a start of recognition in the eyes of the man who passed。
Nothing else； in features or gestures； betrayed recognition or
surprise。 But although there was only that； it flashed from his
eyes to mine like an electric shock。 He passed。 I looked back。
He continued his way without turning。 The face was certainly known
to me； but it floated in a mist of confused memories。
I walked on slowly； pestering my memory with fruitless calls upon
it； hopelessly trying to recover the place where I could have seen
the stranger before。 In vain memory traveled over Europe in
concert…rooms； theaters； shops； and railway carriages。 I could not
recall the occasion on which those eyes had previously met mine。
That they had met them I had no doubt。 I went to bed with the
riddle undiscovered。
II
THE ECHOES OF MURDER
Next morning Nuremberg was agitated with a horror such as can
seldom have disturbed its quiet； a young and lovely girl had been
murdered。 Her corpse was discovered at daybreak under the archway
leading to the old fortifications。 She had been stabbed to the
heart。 No other signs of violence were visible； no robbery had
been attempted。
In great cities； necessarily great centers of crime； we daily hear
of murders； their frequency and remoteness leave us undisturbed。
Our sympathies can only be deeply moved either by some scenic
peculiarities investing the crime with unusual romance or unusual
atrocity； or else by the more immediate appeal of direct neighborly
interest。 The murder which is read of in the Times as having
occurred in Westminster； has seldom any special horror to the
inhabitants of Islington or Oxford Street； but to the inhabitants
of Westminster； and especially to the inhabitants of the particular
street in which it was perpetrated； the crime assumes heart…shaking
proportions。 Every detail is asked for； and every surmise listened
to； with feverish eagerness is repeated and diffused through the
crowd with growing interest。 The family of the victim； the
antecedents of the assassin； if he is known； or the conjectures
pointing to the unknown assassin；are eagerly discussed。 All the
trivial details of household care or domestic fortunes； all the
items of personal gossip； become invested with a solemn and
affecting interest。 Pity for the victim and survivors mingle and
alternate with fierce cries for vengeance on the guilty。 The whole
street becomes one family； commingled by an energetic sympathy；
united by one common feeling of compassion and wrath。
In villages； and in cities so small as Nuremberg； the same
community of feeling is manifested。 The town became as one street。
The horror spread like a conflagration； the sympathy surged and
swelled like a tide。 Everyone felt a personal interest in the
event； as if the murder had been committed at his own door。 Never
shall I forget that wail of passionate pity； and that cry for the
vengeance of justice； which rose from all sides of the startled
city。 Never shall I forget the hurry； the agitation； the feverish
restlessness； the universal communicativeness； the volunteered
services； the eager suggestion； surging round the house of the
unhappy parents。 Herr Lehfeldt； the father of the unhappy girl；
was a respected burgher known to almost every one。 His mercer's
shop was the leading one of the city。 A worthy； pious man；
somewhat strict； but of irreproachable character； his virtues； no
less than those of his wife； and of his only daughter； Lieschen
now； alas； for ever snatched from their yearning eyeswere
canvassed everywhere； and served to intensify the general grief。
That such a calamity should have fallen on a household so
estimable； seemed to add fuel to the people's wrath。 Poor
Lieschen！ her pretty； playful waysher opening prospects； as the
only daughter of parents so well to do and so kindher youth and
abounding lifethese were detailed with impassioned fervor by
friends； and repeated by strangers who caught the tone of friends；
as if they； too； had known and loved her。 But amidst the surging
uproar of this sea of many voices no one clear voice of direction
could be heard； no clue given to the clamorous bloodhounds to run
down the assassin。
Cries had been heard in the streets that night at various parts of
the town； which； although then interpreted as the quarrels of
drunken brawlers； and the conflicts of cats； were now confidently
asserted to have proceeded from the unhappy girl in her death…
struggle。 But none of these cries had been heard in the immediate
neighborhood of the archway。 All the inhabitants of that part of
the town agreed that in their waking hours the streets had been
perfectly still。 Nor were there any traces visible of a struggle
having taken place。 Lieschen might have been murdered elsewhere；
and her corpse quietly deposited where it was found； as far as any
evidence went。
Wild and vague were the conjectures。 All were baffled in the
attempt to give them a definite direction。 The crime was
apparently prompted by revengecertainly not by lust； or desire of
money。 But she was not known to stand in any one's way。 In this
utter blank as to the assignable motive； I； perhaps alone among the
furious crowd； had a distinct suspicion of the assassin。 No sooner
had the news reached me； than with the specification of the theater
of the crime there at once flashed upon me the intellectual vision
of the criminal： the stranger with the dark beard and startled eyes
s