mall volumes.
Strangely enough, it was not irksome to me. I could image to myself
distinctly the land of Greece with its white marble temples and its
bright sky, and I had a conception of pagan antiquity that was almost as
vivid (if not so correct) as Fenelon's: Calypso and her nymphs enchanted
me.

Every day, in order to read, I hid myself from the Peyrals, either in
my uncle's garden or in the garret of his house, my two favorite
hiding-places.

This garret, under the high Louis XIII roof, extended the full length of
the house. The shutters of the place were seldom opened, and there
was here, in consequence, almost perpetual twilight. The old things,
belonging to a bygone century, lying there under the dust and cobwebs
attracted me from the first day; and, little by little, the habit of
slipping up there with my Telemaque had grown upon me. I usually stole
up after the noon dinner, secure in the thought that no one would dream
of looking for me there. At this noon hour of hot and radiant sunshine,
the garret, by contrast, was almost as dark as night. Noiselessly I
would throw open a shutter of one of the dormer windows and a flood
of sunshine poured in; then I climbed out on the roof, and with elbows
resting upon the sun-warmed old slate tiles overgrown with golden
mosses, I would read my book.

Around me, on this same roof, thousands of Agen plums were drying. This
fruit, intended for winter use, was spread out on mats made of reeds;
warmed through and through by the sun and thoroughly dried they were
delicious; their fragrance, too, was exquisite and it impregnated the
whole garret. The bees and the wasps who, like me, ate them at their
pleasure, tumbled on their backs and extended their legs in the air,
overcome seemingly by the cloying sweetness of the fruit and the heat
of the day. And on the neighboring roofs, between the old gothic gables,
there were similar reed mats covered with these same plums, all visited
by myriads of buzzing wasps and bees.

One could also see from here the two streets that came together in front
of my uncle's house; they were lined with mediaeval dwellings, and each
terminated at an arched door that was cut in the high red stone wall
that had formerly served as a fortification. The village was hot and
drowsy and silent, the heat of the mid-summer sun made it torpid; but
one could hear innumerable chickens and ducks scratching and pecking
at the sun-baked dirt in the streets. And fa