It was in the fall of 1831 in Paris, a year after the July Revolution, when I saw Doctor Ludwig Börne again. I met him in the Hôtel de Castille, and I was not a little surprised at the change that expressed itself in his whole being. The little bit of flesh that I had previously observed on his body had now completely disappeared, perhaps melted in the rays of the July sun, which unfortunately had penetrated his brain as well. Alarming sparks glittered in his eyes. He sat, or rather, lived in a great, multicolored silk dressing gown like a turtle in its shell, and whenever he mistrustfully bent his thin little head out of it, I had an eerie feeling. But sympathy prevailed when he stretched out his emaciated hand from the wide sleeve for a greeting or a friendly handshake. His voice trembled with a certain debility and on his cheeks the red glint of consumption already grinned. The sharp-edged distrust that lurked in all his features and movements was perhaps a consequence of his hardness of hearing, from which he had already suffered earlier, but which grew ever worse and contributed not a little to spoiling conversation with him for me.

“Welcome to Paris!” he cried to me. “That's good that you have come; that's fine. I am convinced that all the best-intentioned people will soon be here. Here is the assembly of the patriots of all Europe, and all peoples must reach their hands out to one other for the great work.