At one of the windows I pretend I remember seeing a tailor mending the uniforms of the cadets.

I knew the uniforms, and I knew, in later years, the man who had been the tailor; but I am not sure that he did not emigrate to America, there to seek his fortune in a candy shop, and his happiness in a family of triplets, twins, and even odds, long before I was old enough to toddle as far as the gate.
Behind my grandfather's house was a low hill, which I do _not_ remember as a mountain.

Perhaps it was only a hump in the ground.

This eminence, of whatever stature, was a part of the Vall, a longer and higher ridge on the top of which was a promenade, and which was said to be the burying-ground of Napoleonic soldiers.

This historic rumor meant very little to me, for I never knew what Napoleon was.
It was not my way to accept unchallenged every superstition that came to my ears.