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.