ve not the
same nature as minions of the drawing-room. There was a saying: 'As
passionate as a Santeze.' This could be noticed by looking at them. They
all had wavy hair, falling over their brows, curly beards and large eyes
whose glance pierced and moved one, though one could not say why.

"The grandfather of the owner of this hair, of whom it is the last
souvenir, after many adventures, duels and elopements, at about
sixty-five fell madly in 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 wou