Another book, however, was destined to enter still more deeply into my sensibility, corresponding as it did with that condition of independence and enfranchisement to which I deemed myself to have attained. Into the pile of almanacs brought thither by grandfather had slipped that copy of the “Confessions” which had puzzled me as a child, and which I had taken for a manual of piety. The innocent _Limping Messenger of Berne and Vevey_ came leading by the hand that Jean-Jacques whom, long before I knew him, I had heard spoken of as if he were still living and we might meet him anywhere in our walks. I had read in school only short fragments of his writings in which I had found nothing personal. I fell upon the narrative of that troubled life, which at first disgusted me. The theft of the ribbon in the house of Mme de Vercellis and the cowardly accusation that followed, certain physiological details which I could ill understand, the title of _maman_ bestowed upon Mme de Warens, produced upon me the effect of immodest confidences, and all alone as I was in the forest, or lying in the grass on the top of the mountain, I felt myself blushing to the ears. My deepest nature resisted, but by an insensible decline I came even to admire the man who could humiliate himself by such avowals; not perceiving their pride I felt giddied by their truth. After that the volume never left me. Louise, disturbed by this preoccupation, tried to wield some censorship. One evening as I came in from gazing at the stars--those in the South, which I most easily recognised--I found her under the lamp looking into the “Confessions.” She did not see me and I watched her; she suddenly closed the book, and perceiving me, her indignation burst forth: “You have no right to read this book.” “I read what I please.” She appealed to grandfather, who declined all responsibility. “Oh, every one is free. And at least Jean-Jacques is sincere.”