That hard winter passed under the ferule of the “Bull of Apis” and the “Great Ape,” finally came to an end and spring returned; it was always a troublous time for us, the scholars, for the first mild days gave us a great longing¹ to be out, and we could scarcely hide our restlessness. The roses budded everywhere upon our old walls; my beloved little garden, bright and warm under the March sunshine, tempted² me, and I would tarry there a long time to watch the insects wake up, and to see the early butterflies and bees fly away. Even the revised “Donkey's Skin” was neglected.  
I was no longer escorted to and from school, for I had persuaded my family to discontinue a custom that made me ridiculous in the eyes of my companions. Often, before returning home, I would take a long and roundabout way and pass by the peaceful ramparts from where I had glimpses of other provinces, and a sight of the distant country.
 
I worked with even less zeal³ than usual that spring, for the beautiful weather that tempted me out of doors turned my head and made study almost impossible.
 
Assuredly one of the things for which I had the least aptitude⁴ was French composition; I generally composed a mere⁵ rough draught⁶ without a particle of embellishment to redeem⁷ it. In the class there was a boy who was a very eagle, and he always read his lucubrations aloud. Oh! with what unction he read out his pretty creations! (He is now settled in a manufacturing town, and has become the most prosaic⁸ of petty bailiffs.) One day the subject given out was: “A Shipwreck⁹.” To me the words had a lyrical sound! But, nevertheless, I handed in my paper with only the title and my name inscribed¹⁰ upon it. No, I could not make up my mind to elaborate the subjects given to us by the “Great Ape”; a sort of instinctive¹² good taste kept me from writing trite¹³ commonplaces, and as for putting down things of my own imagining, the knowledge that they would be read and picked to pieces by the old bogey¹⁴ made it impossible for me to compose anything.
 
I loved, however, even at this time, to write for myself, but I did it with the greatest secrecy¹⁵. Not in the desk in my room that was profaned¹⁶ by lessons and copy-books, but in the little old-fashioned one that was part of the furniture of my museum, there was hidden away a............