and hairs sticking to their sides, and the young women, with their
clothes drenched, returned every evening, tired in body and in mind.

After dinner, in the large drawing-room, everybody played lotto, without
enjoyment, while the wind whistled madly around the house. Then they
tried telling stories like those they read in books, but no one was able
to invent anything amusing. The hunters told tales of wonderful shots and
of the butchery of rabbits; and the women racked their brains for ideas
without revealing the imagination of Scheherezade. They were about to
give up this diversion when a young woman, who was idly caressing the
hand of an old maiden aunt, noticed a little ring made of blond hair,
which she had often seen, without paying any attention to it.

She fingered it gently and asked, "Auntie, what is this ring? It looks as
if it were made from the hair of a child."

The old lady blushed, grew pale, then answered in a trembling voice: "It
is sad, so sad that I never wish to speak of it. All the unhappiness of
my life comes from that. I was very young then, and the memory has
remained so painful that I weep every time I think of it."

Immediately everybody wished to know the story, but the old lady refused
to tell it. Finally, after they had coaxed her for a long time, she
yielded. Here is the story:

"You have often heard me speak of the Santeze family, now extinct. I knew
the last three male members of this family. They all died in the same
manner; this hair belongs to the last one. He was thirteen when he killed
himself for me. That seems strange to you, doesn't it?