As far the meadow in which Sand was executed, it is still called by the people “Sand’s Himmelsfartsweise,” which signifies “The manner of Sand’s ascension.”

Toward the end of September, 1838, we were at Mannheim, where I had stayed three days in order to collect all the details I could find about the life and death of Karl-Ludwig Sand.  But at the end of these three days, in spite of my active investigations, these details still remained extremely incomplete, either because I applied in the wrong quarters, or because, being a foreigner, I inspired same distrust in those to whom I applied.  I was leaving Mannheim, therefore, somewhat disappointed, and after having visited the little Protestant cemetery where Sand and Kotzebue are buried at twenty paces from each other, I had ordered my driver to take the road to Heidelberg, when, after going a few yards, he, who knew the object of my inquiries, stopped of himself and asked me whether I should not like to see the place where Sand was executed.  At the same time he pointed to a little mound situated in the middle of a meadow and a few steps from a brook.  I assented eagerly, and although the driver remained on the highroad with my travelling companions, I soon recognised the spot indicated, by means of some relics of cypress branches, immortelles, and forget-me-nots scattered upon the earth.  It will readily be understood that this sight, instead of diminishing my desire for information, increased it.  I was feeling, then, more than ever dissatisfied at going away, knowing so little, when I saw a man of some five-and-forty to fifty years old, who was walking a little distance from the place where I myself was, and who, guessing the cause that drew me thither, was looking at me with curiosity.  I determined to make a last effort, and going up to him, I said, “Oh, sir, I am a stranger; I am travelling to collect all the rich and poetic traditions of your Germany.  By the way in which you look at me, I guess that you know which of them attracts me to this meadow.  Could you give me any information about the life and death of Sand?”

“With what object, sir?” the person to whom I spoke asked me in almost unintelligible French.

“With a very German object, be assured, sir,” I replied.  “From the little I have learned, Sand seems to me to be one of those ghosts that appear only the greater and the more poetic for being wrapped in a shroud stained with blood.  But he is not known in France; he might be put on the same level there with a Fieschi or a Meunier, and I wish, to the best of my ability, to enlighten the minds of my countrymen about him.”

“It would be a great pleasure to me, sir, to assist in such an undertaking; but you see that I can scarcely speak French; you do not speak German at all; so that we shall find it difficult to understand each other.”

“If that is all,” I returned, “I have in my carriage yonder an interpreter, or rather an interpretress, with whom you will, I hope, be quite satisfied, who speaks German like Goethe, and to whom, when you have once begun to speak to her, I defy you not to tell everything.”