"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-stories.' And my mother, as a joke,
would tell him all the old legends of the family, all the passionate
adventures of his forefathers, for thousands of them were current, some