It is raining, each drop of water makes the zinc covering the gutter sing. I love the rain, it makes me appreciate the warmth of my home even more. It is still early, I sit down at my writing desk. Catherine has sent me information about her great-grandfather Georges, Henri, Victor LE PETIT. Upon returning from America with his wife and son, they stayed for a few months with his father Joseph. Around 1874, the family moved to Calais, Étienne having been born in 1873 in Boulogne-sur-Mer. Of their seven children, only three remained in Calais: Georges, Catherine’s grandfather, who would have seventeen children from his two marriages, his sister Blanche and his brother Walter. Rose died as a child, the others went to Paris.
It is my very dear Étienne LE PETIT, soldier of Napoleon I, who settled in Boulogne-sur-Mer. I had the pleasure of speaking with him in the year 1805. It was he himself who told me that he intended to put down roots in this beautiful region that Catherine calls Hauts-de-France.
Étienne spoke to me about his parents Jean Baptiste and Marie Catherine DUVAL, his two brothers Jean Baptiste the elder and François the younger, and his grandparents Julien LE PETIT and Scholastique CRESPION who married in Vire around 1735. There are no records to confirm these dates, a fire destroyed everything. However, their five children are clearly identified in this town: François 1737–1779, Bertine 1740–1801, Charles 1741–1753 and Louis 1744–1755. Bertine died unmarried, and the last two left far too young.
It is a shame to have so little information about this branch of the family. She must continue her research into Normandy and the collateral families. I wish her wonderful discoveries.
The rain has stopped, but the sky has chosen shades of grey for this late afternoon. I dare to venture outside and head towards the Richelieu Gate. On the other side of the bridge, gardeners are restoring the beauty of the park that bears the same name. It is cool, the air is saturated with scents: humus, grass, a faint smell of flowers, and with every gust of wind the scent of iodine floods over and covers the other aromas. Along the paths of the square, I greet customers and their husbands. Daylight is fading and I head back home. The sky is becoming increasingly threatening and I lengthen my stride. Large drops are soaking my hat, will I arrive in time? I am not going to hail a cab for the little distance I have left.
I turn the key in the lock, I am dripping from head to toe, rebellious strands of hair have escaped my bun, water runs from the brim of my hat, my coat is soaked, my skirt has gathered all the mud from the road, I look a sorry sight. Next time, I shall stay at home!
A rebrousse temps généalogie 