sound of her voice.

But I still kept on jumping. Like those tiny foolish moths which of an
evening revolve about the light of a lamp, I went around in the luminous
circle which widened and retracted, ever taking form from the wavering
light of the flames. And I remember all of this so vividly that my eyes
can still see the smallest details of the texture of the carpet which
was the scene of the event. It was of durable stuff called home-spun,
woven in the country by native weavers. (Our house was still furnished
as it had been in my maternal grandmother's time, as she had arranged
it after she had quitted the Island, and come to the mainland.--A
little later I will speak of this Island which had already a mysterious
attraction for my youthful imagination.--It was a simple country house,
notable for its Huguenot austerity; and it was a home where immaculate
cleanliness and extreme order were the sole luxuries.)

In the circle of light, which grew ever more and more narrow, I still
jumped; but as I did so I had thoughts that were of an intensity not
habitual with me. At the same time that my tiny limbs discovered their
power, my spirit also knew itself; a burst of light overspread my mind
where dawning ideas still showed forth feebly. And it is without doubt
to the inner awakening that this fleeting moment of my life owes its
existence, owes undoubtedly its permanency in memory. But vainly I seek
for the words, that seem ever to escape me, through which to express my
elusive emotions. . . . Here in the dining-room I look about and see the
chairs standing the length of the wall, and I am reminded of the aged
grandmother, grand-aunts and aunts who always come at a certain hour
and seat themselves in them. Why are they not here now? At this moment I
would like to feel their protecting presence about me. Probably they are
upstairs in their rooms on the second floor; between them and me there