love with his farmer's daughter. I knew them
both. She was blond, pale, distinguished-looking, with a slow manner of
talking, a quiet voice and a look so gentle that one might have taken her
for a Madonna. The old nobleman took her to his home and was soon so
captivated with her that he could not live without her for a minute. His
daughter and daughter-in-law, who lived in the chateau, found this
perfectly natural, love was such a tradition in the family. Nothing in
regard to a passion surprised them, and if one spoke before them of
parted lovers, even of vengeance after treachery, both said in the same
sad tone: 'Oh, how he must have suffered to come to that point!' That was
all. They grew sad over tragedies of love, but never indignant, even when
they were criminal.

"Now, one day a young man named Monsieur de Gradelle, who had been
invited for the shooting, eloped with the young girl.

"Monsieur de Santeze remained calm as if nothing had happened, but one
morning he was found hanging in the kennels, among his dogs.

"His son died in the same manner in a hotel in Paris during a journey
which he made there in 1841, after being deceived by a singer from the
opera.

"He left a twelve-year-old child and a widow, my mother's sister. She
came to my father's house with the boy, while we were living at
Bertillon. I was then seventeen.

"You have no idea how wonderful and precocious this Santeze child was.
One might have thought that all the tenderness and exaltation of the
whole race had been stored up in this last one. He was always dreaming
and walking about alone in a great alley of elms leading from the chateau
to the forest. I watched from my window this sentimental boy, who walked
with thoughtful steps, his hands behind his back, his head bent, and at
times stopping to raise his eyes as if he could see and understand things
that were not comprehensible at his age.

"Often, after dinner on clear evenings, he would say to me: 'Let us go
outside and dream, cousin.' And we would go outside together in the park.
He would stop quickly before a clearing where the white vapor of the moon
lights the woods, and he would press my hand, saying: 'Look! look! but
you don't understand me; I feel it. If you understood me, we should be
happy. One must love to know! I would laugh and then kiss this child, who
loved me madly.

"Often, after dinner, he would sit on my mother's knees. 'Come, auntie,'
he would say, 'tell me some love