The only task required of me during my vacation was that I should read from Fenelon's Telemaque (my education, you see, was a little out of date).

My copy of the work was composed of several small 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.