I had not seen my mother since I was born, so the stay in La Rochelle was also an opportunity for me to get to know her properly. At first, I couldn't help but be surprised that she merely kissed me twice, and then only on my forehead, after all this time apart. Nor could I have guessed that those two kisses would be the only ones I would receive from her in my life. She spoke in harsh tones and was clearly irritated by my thoughtless laughter at the stories my brothers told. "She really is not a pretty child," she told my brother Constant right in front of me one day. "Her eyes are absurdly out of proportion. They make it impossible to see the rest of her face."

However, it was not until some days after my arrival that my reservations about her became outright loathing. This change was brought about by the way she tried to take me to church. I had never attended a mass, but I was more curious about it than hostile to it, and even though I had sometimes been to sermons with the Villettes, I did not consider myself to be a Protestant. My mother dragged me along as if she were taking me to prison instead of church, uttering threats and clutching my hand in a vice-like grip. I was not naturally docile and this use of force awakened a sense of rebellion deep inside me. The end result of my mother's method was that I turned my back to the altar as soon as we were inside the church. She slapped me. I bore it with great courage, feeling enormously proud to be suffering for my religion. This resistance to the mass didn't last, because there was no basis for it. But I have never got over the repulsion for my mother that was born from this experience.

My stay in La Rochelle also provided the opportunity to really get to know my mother whom I had not seen since my birth. First of all, I never ceased to be amazed at the fact that she kissed me only twice, and just on my forehead, after such a long separation. Neither would I have imagined that those two kisses would be the only ones I would receive from her my entire life. I found her to be bitter and irritated by my fits of thoughtless laughter at my brothers’ foibles. “That is definitely not a beautiful child,” she said one day to my brother Constant in my presence. “She’s all eyes, she doesn’t have a face, it’s ridiculously disproportionate.”

It was, however, only a few days after my arrival that my coldness towards her turned to outright dislike. This change was wrought by the manner in which she had thought it necessary to take me to church. I had never been to mass but felt more curious than hostile, and although I had attended sermons with the Villettes sometimes, I did not consider myself a Protestant. My mother led me to church the way she might have led me to gaol; with threats and a firm grasp on my wrist. I was not docile by nature and had a rebellious streak that was awakened by the use of force. My mother, using her method, achieved the splendid result of my turning my back on the altar as soon as I entered the church. She slapped me. I bore it with great courage and gloried in suffering for my religion. As far as mass was concerned, my defiance did not last as there had been no basis for it, but I never got over the aversion I developed towards my mother in the wake of that incident.

Not having seen my mother since birth, the visit to La Rochelle was also the chance to get to know her better. At first I was a bit surprised that after such a long separation she only kissed me twice, just on the forehead. Little did I know that those two kisses would be the only ones I would ever get from her in my life. I found her embittered when she spoke and irritated by my ill-considered guffaws at my brothers' made-up stories. "That child is obviously not beautiful", she said one day in front of me, to my brother Constant, 'she's all eyes, they dominate her face, they are ridiculously out of proportion'.

It was only a few days after my arrival, however, that my reserve when I was in her company turned to downright dislike. This change came about because of the way she thought she had to drag me along to church. I had never been to Mass but I was more curious than hostile, and although I sometimes worshipped with the Villette family, I didn't think of myself as a Protestant. My mother took me to church like she was taking me to prison - with threats and a tight grip on my hand. I was not a naturally compliant child and in my deepest being was a rebelliousness that the use of force brought to the surface. The unhappy consequence of my mother's treatment of me led me to turn my back to the altar as soon as I entered the church. She gave me a slap which I bore with great fortitude, feeling triumphant that I was suffering for my religion. My opposition to the Mass did not last long as it was without foundation, but that incident gave rise to a loathing for my mother that has never left me.

As for my mother, whom I had not seen since birth, the stay at La Rochelle was also a chance for me to know her more completely. At first, I could not get over my surprise that after this rather long separation she had kissed me just twice, and only on the forehead at that; even so I could not have guessed these two kisses would be the only ones I was to receive from her in my entire life. I found her to be bitter in her remarks and annoyed with the irrepressible laughter that overtook me at my brothers' antics. “To be sure, this child is ugly,” she commented one day to my brother Constantine in my presence, “she is all eyes; they consume her face; such a lack of proportion is quite ridiculous.”

It was not, however, until a few days after my arrival that my reticence towards her turned into frank aversion; this change came about from the way in which she believed it necessary to take me to church. I had never attended Mass before but felt more curiosity than hostility and, though having on occasion accompanied the Villettes to church, I did not consider myself a Huguenot. My mother took me to church as if she were leading me to a jail cell: with threats and a tight squeeze on my hand. I was not naturally docile and my nature contained an undercurrent of rebellion, which was awakened by the use of force. With these methods, my mother arrived at the fine result that, no sooner had I entered the church, I turned my back to the altar. She slapped me; I took it with great courage; feeling noble at having been made to suffer for my religion. With regards to Mass, this resistance did not last as it was unfounded, however I never did recover from the aversion to my mother borne from this incident.

My mother, whom I had not seen since I was born, believed that this visit to La Rochelle would be the opportunity to become fully acquainted with her. At the beginning, I could not get over the fact that, despite such a long separation, she had only kissed me twice, and only on the forehead. Little did I know at the time that these two kisses would be the only ones she would give me during my entire life. When she spoke, her comments were bitter, and when my brothers' silliness made me laugh, my lack of consideration irritated her. "This child really is ugly," she said one day in front of me to my brother, Constant, "her eyes take up all her face, just eyes; they're so large, it's just ridiculous".

Yet, after my arrival it still took a few days for my initial reserve to develop into a strong dislike. This transition came about when my mother became convinced that it was her duty to make sure I went to church. I had never gone to mass before, and I was more curious than hostile to the idea. Also, even though I had sometimes gone to listen to the preacher with the Villettes, I did not see myself as a Huguenot. My mother dragged me along to church as if she was marching me to prison, clamping my hand firmly and spouting threats. Not being a docile child by nature, my rebellious side was provoked whenever compelled by force. As a result of her particular method, my mother provoked me to the point where, once in church, I promptly turned my back on the altar. This earned me a slap across the face, and I suffered it with glory, courage, and a feeling of righteousness for what I had endured for my religion. Since my resistance to mass was unjustified, it did not last. However, this incident was the beginning of a violent dislike for my mother, from which I never recovered.

My stay in La Rochelle was an opportunity to get to know my mother whom I had not seen since my birth. At first, I tried not to be surprised that she kissed me just twice, and only on the forehead, after this rather long separation. Yet I had no idea idea that those two kisses would be the only ones I was to receive from her in my life. I found she spoke bitterly and was irritated by my mindless laughter at my brothers' antics. "Really, this child is no beauty", she once said in front of me to my brother Constant, "she is all eyes; they take up all her face; it is a highly ridiculous disproportion".

It was only a few days after my arrival that my reservations about her turned into total aversion. This change came from the way she thought it necessary to take me to church. I had never been to mass but I felt more curiosity than hostility towards it and although I had sometimes attended sermons with the Villettes I did not think of myself as a protestant. My mother took me to church as if she were taking me to the dungeons: with threats and a tight hold on my wrist. I was not naturally docile and there was a rebellious side to my nature which was brought out by the use of force. With her methods, my mother managed to obtain great results: as soon as I was in the church I turned my back to the altar. She gave me a slap, which I bore with great courage. It felt glorious to suffer for my religion. My resistance to mass did not last, unfounded as it was, but I never cast aside the loathing for my mother which was brought about by this episode.

I had not seen my mother since my birth and my stay at La Rochelle was also the opportunity for me to discover her completely. At the beginning, I could not get over my surprise at the fact that she only kissed me twice, and then only on the forehead, after a fairly long separation- but I could never have guessed that those two kisses would be the only ones she would give me in my whole life. To me, she seemed full of bitterness when she spoke and impatient with my inconsiderate laughter at my brothers' foolishness. One day, in my presence, she said to my brother Constant: "decidedly, this child is not beautiful- her eyes take up the whole of her face, they're ridiculously disproportionate".

However, my reserve towards my mother did not turn to real aversion until a few days after my arrival. The change came from the way that she felt that she had to take me to church. I had never been to a mass, but I was more curious than hostile and, although I had been to hear a few preachers with the Villettes, I did not consider myself to be a Huguenot. My mother led me to church as she would have to a dungeon- with threats and my hand held tight in her clenched fist. I was not of a docile nature and I had a rebellious streak that awoke at the use of force. My mother's method's only result was that, as soon as I set foot in the church, I turned my back on the alter. She slapped me. I bore the stroke with great courage, feeling glorious to be suffering for my religion. My resistance to the mass did not last, groundless as it was, but nothing ever altered the aversion for my mother that was born from this event.

Not having seen my mother since the day I was born, the sojourn at La Rochelle was therefore the chance to discover everything about her. It did not fail to surprise me, at first, that after this relatively lengthy separation she would kiss me only twice, and just on the forehead; then again, I could not have guessed that these two kisses would be the only ones I would ever receive from her. I found her bitter in her remarks and irritated by my sudden, indiscriminate laughter at my brothers’ caprices. “This child is decidedly unattractive,” she told my brother Constant in front of me one day. “She is all eyes. They devour her face. Everything is ridiculously out of proportion.”

It was, however, just a few days after my arrival that my reservations towards her turned to pure loathing. This change was brought on by the manner in which she thought I should be escorted to church. I had never heard mass before, but my curiosity was greater than my hostility and, although I had attended the sermon a few times with the Villettes, I did not think of myself as a Huguenot. My mother escorted me to church as if she were escorting me to a prison cell: with threats and a tight grip around my hand. I was not naturally docile and my nature harboured a rebellious streak that was aroused by the use of force. Through her actions, my mother achieved a splendid result: the moment I entered the church, I turned my back to the altar. She gave me a slap across the face; I bore it with great bravery, basking in the glory of suffering for my religion. As for mass, my resistance to it was short-lived since it was unfounded, but never would I overcome the loathing for my mother that was borne of this episode.

I had not seen my mother since my birth, and the time spent at La Rochelle was, in her regard too, a chance to discover things more fully. I did not, initially, allow myself to be surprised that after this rather long separation she touched me only twice, and only on the forehead; I did not yet imagine that these two kisses would be the only ones I was to receive from her all my life. I detected bitterness in her remarks, and her impatience toward the inconsiderate laughter to which I fell prey at the antics of my brothers. “Indeed, this child is not beautiful,” she said one day in front of me to my brother Constant. “She has nothing but eyes; they devour her face; it’s a most ridiculous disproportion.”

It was not until some days after my arrival that my reserve towards her became open dislike: this change came from the manner in which she thought she should take me to church. I had never been to Mass, but I felt more curiosity than hostility, and although I had sometimes been to hear sermons with the Villettes, I didn't consider myself a Huguenot. My mother took me to church as if she were taking me to a dungeon: with threats, clenching my hand tightly. I was not docile by nature, and in my character was a core of rebellion, which was stirred into action by the use of force. With her method, my mother reaped fine results: as soon as I was in the church, I turned my back on the altar. She gave me a swipe; I bore it bravely, feeling how glorious it was to suffer for my religion. As regards the Mass, this resistance did not last, because it was unfounded; yet I never recovered from the dislike of my mother that this experience engendered.