And his laugh, his terrible little laugh, began to undermine my notions about life, my beliefs. It produced upon me the effect of the touch of the finger that I used to give when I erected great buildings with my blocks. The edifice grew higher, higher,--I barely touched with my finger one of the columns at the base, and down it all came. “Oh, to us!” I protested. People were not to take possession of other people’s property like that, simply because they did not know the owner’s name. Everything that I had been taught protested. “Why, yes, little simpleton,” he replied. “Every one takes his own in the world. Do you like this bit of land? It is yours,--like the sun that warms us, the air that we breath, the loveliness of these early spring days.” I was not convinced. Dim resistances awoke within me, shivering; I found no words to express them, and could only bring forward the poor objection: “Yes, but I couldn’t take anything from it.” “You take your pleasure from it, that’s the important thing.” Confident of victory, he clinched it by invoking the testimony of a third party. “Jean-Jacques would explain to you better than I can, that nature holds within itself the happiness of man. Jean-Jacques would have loved this retreat.” He uttered the name _Jean-Jacques_ with devout unction, pursing his lips. He spoke of him as Aunt Deen spoke of the best known and most useful saints, Saint Christopher, for example, who protects against accidents, or Saint Antony, who helps to find lost objects. Puzzled, I at once asked: “Who is that--Jean-Jacques?” “A friend; a friend whom you do not know.” Why, I knew, or thought I knew, all grandfather’s friends. He received few visits, mostly from other old men, who appeared older than he, who seemed to be sad and who soon bored him. There was one who would sit down without saying a word, and would just sit a long time, motionless and mute. One day grandfather forgot that he was there and left the room. On his return he found him in the same place, fast asleep. Grandfather would complain openly about the visits of all these “old fogies” as he called them, not one of whom, I was certain, was named Jean-Jacques. On the other hand, he always liked to come down to the drawing-room when he thought he might meet ladies there. Time pressing, we returned through the chestnut grove, but went out on another side, passing through a second hedge, this one of young acacias. It was with manifest pleasure that I saw houses and cultivated fields again. “Come! here are private properties for you,” said grandfather when we reached the cultivated grounds. His lips curled with disdain. Not at all disconcerted I asked for landmarks. “Where is ours?” “I don’t know. Look over there, at the left. You’ll see it all right as we go on. As for me, when I take a walk I go where fancy leads me. One always gets home somehow.”