I may say, however, if the reader will pardon my vanity, that my inclinations betrayed my origin. I do not know what divine influence operates in the works of monks, but it seems that the virtue of the frock is communicated to every thing they touch. Annette was a proof of this. She was the most frisky female I ever saw, and I have seen a pretty number. She was stout, but somewhat attractive, with little black eyes and a turned-up nose, lively and amorous, and dressed rather better than peasants in general. She would have been an excellent makeshift for a respectable man; guess what she must have been for the monks.

When the jade was decked out in her Sunday corset, which enclosed a bosom that the sun had never browned, and allowed a glimpse of her breasts, struggling, as it were, to escape from its constraint; ah! how did I then feel that I was not her son, or that I was quite prepared to resign that honor.

My disposition was altogether monkish. Led by instinct, I never saw a girl without embracing her, or passing my hand over her wherever she would allow me; and although I did not positively know what I wanted, my heart told me that I should have gone further, had no opposition been offered to my transports.

One day, when they supposed me to be at school, I had remained at home in a little closet where I slept. A thin partition, against which a bed was placed, separated it from the chamber of Ambrose. I was asleep, it was the middle of summer and very hot; I was suddenly awakened by several violent pushes against the partition. I knew not what to think of this noise, which became still louder. I listened and could hear the sound of some few words, incoherent and indistinctly articulated.

“Ah! gently, my dear Annette, not so fast! Oh! hussy, you kill me with pleasure!… quick! oh! faster! oh! I am dying”

I was surprised at such exclamations, the force of which I could not understand. I sat up, but durst scarcely move.