My uncle's garden, my other place of retreat, was not attached to the
house, but was situated, as were all the other ones in the village,
beyond the ramparts of the town. It was surrounded by very high walls,
and one had entrance to it through an old arched gate that was unlocked
with an enormous key. Upon certain days, armed with my Telemaque and my
butterfly-net, I isolated myself there.

In the garden there were several plum trees, and from them there fell,
onto the warm earth, over-ripe plums of the same variety as those drying
on the ancient roofs. The old arbor was trellised with grape vines, and
legions of flies and bees feasted upon the musky, fragrant grapes. The
extreme end of the garden, for it was a very large one, was overgrown
like an ordinary field with alfalfa.

The charm of this old orchard lay in the feeling it gave one of being
greatly secluded, of being absolutely alone in a wilderness of space and
silence.

I must not forget to speak of the old arbor that two summers later was
the scene of the most momentous act of my childhood. It backed against
the surrounding wall, and its lattice-work was overspread with muscadine
vines that the sun scorched and withered.

In this garden, for some inexplicable reason, I had the impression of
being in the tropics, in the colonies of my fancy. And in truth the
tropical gardens that I saw later were filled with the same heavy
fragrance and had much the same appearance. From time to time rare
butterflies, such as are not often seen elsewhere, flitted through
the garden. From a front view they looked like common yellow and black
butterflies, but a side view showed them to be as glistening and as