If, then, you have ever seen a brave cavalry officer in citizen’s dress, with his short hair and his bristly moustache beginning to turn gray; if you have noticed in his energetic features those straight and vertical lines which are hardly as yet wrinkles, and which seem peculiar to these military faces; if you have gazed upon that forehead, rebellious to the hat, and which seems made expressly for the kepi or tricorne, upon those firm eyes which by day are accustomed to brave danger, but by night become gentle at the fireside as they rest upon the children’s heads; if you remember this characteristic type, I have no need to introduce you to M. Roger Lacassagne, officer in the custom-house at Bordeaux--you know him as well as I. When, about two years ago, I had the honor of visiting him at his house, Rue du Chai des Farines, No. 6, at Bordeaux, I was struck at first by his severe appearance and his air of reserve. He asked me, with the somewhat brusque politeness habitual to men of discipline, what was the object of my visit. “Monsieur,” said I, “I have heard the story of your journey to the Grotto of Lourdes, and for the profit of some inquiries I am just now making, I have come to have it from your own mouth.” At the words “the Grotto of Lourdes,” this stern countenance became tender, and a dear remembrance softened its rigid lines. “Be seated,” said he, “and excuse the disorder of our establishment. My family leaves to-day for Arcachou, and everything is topsy-turvy.” “Do not mention it. Tell me all about these interesting events of which I have already heard, but only confusedly.” “For my part,” said he in a voice choked by emotion, “I shall never in my life forget their smallest details. “Monsieur,” he continued after a moment of silence, “I have only two sons. The youngest, about whom I am going to tell you, is called Jules. He will come in before long. You will see how sweet, pure, and good he is.” M. Lacassagne did not tell me all his affection for this youngest son. But the accent of his voice, which became gentle and as it were caressing in speaking of this child, showed me all the depth of his paternal love. I understood that in that strong and tender feeling was concentrated all the force of this manly soul. “His health,” continued he, “was excellent until the age of ten. “At that period there came on unexpectedly, and without apparent physical cause, a disease the importance of which I did not at first appreciate. On the 25th of January, 1865, when we were sitting down to supper, Jules complained of a trouble in his throat which prevented him from swallowing any solid food. He had to limit himself to a little soup. “This state of things continuing next day, I called in Dr. Noguès, one of the most distinguished physicians of Toulouse. “‘The difficulty comes from the nerves,’ said he--which gave me hopes of a speedy cure.