The family of Musset is old and gentle, and was adorned in early centuries by soldiers of mark and statesmen of good counsel—­the sort of lineage which should bequeath high and honorable ideas, an inheritance of which neither Paul nor Alfred de Musset nor their immediate forbears were unworthy.  A disposition to letters and poetry appears among their ancestry on both sides, beginning in the twelfth century with Colin de Musset, a sort of troubadour, a friend of Thibaut, count of Champagne, while the poet’s paternal grandmother bore the name of Du Bellay, so illustrious in the annals of French literature.  Alfred de Musset’s parents were remarkable for goodness of heart and high principle:  both possessed an ideality which showed itself with them in elevation of moral sentiments, and which passed into the imaginative qualities of their sons.  From remoter relatives on both sides came a legacy of wit, promptness and point in retort, gayety and good spirits.  Alfred de Musset was born on the 11th of December, 1810, in the old quarter of Paris, on the left bank of the Seine.  The stories of his childhood—­which are pretty, like all true stories about children—­show a sensitive, affectionate, vivacious, impetuous, perverse nature, precocious observation and intelligence.  He was one of those beautiful, captivating children whom nobody can forbear to spoil, and who, with the innocent cunning of their age, reckon on the effect of their own charms.  He was not four years old when he first fell in love, as such mere babies, both girls and boys, occasionally do:  these infantine passions exhibit most of the phenomena of maturer ones, and show how intense and absorbing a passion may be which belongs exclusively to the region of sentiment and imagination.  Alfred de Musset’s first love was his cousin, a young girl nearly grown up when he first saw her:  he left his playthings to listen to her account of a journey she had made from Belgium, then the seat of war, and from that day, whenever she came to the house, insisted on her telling him stories, which she did with the patience and invention of Scheherazade.  At last he asked her to marry him, and, as she did not refuse, considered her his betrothed wife.  After some time she returned to her home in Liege:  there were tears on both sides—­on his genuine and excessive grief.  “Do not forget me,” said Clelia.—­“Forget you!  Don’t you know that your name is cut upon my heart with a pen-knife?” He set himself to learn to read and write with incredible application, that he might be able to correspond with his beloved.  His attachment did not abate with absence, so that when Clelia really married, the whole family thought it necessary to keep it a secret from her little lover, and he remained in ignorance of it for years, although he betrayed extraordinary suspicion and misgiving on the subject.  He was a schoolboy of eight or nine before he learned the truth, and was at first extremely agitated:  he asked tremblingly if Clelia had been